


The Lords of Summer

by thankgodforpandas



Category: Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, References to Norse Mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:19:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 77,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thankgodforpandas/pseuds/thankgodforpandas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is unrest in the back of Thor's mind, but this is nothing new. He runs his fingers against the supple leather of his jerkin with longing.<br/><i>Tomorrow,<i></i></i> Thor consoles himself, <i>tomorrow.<i></i></i> But for the moment, the hunt waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winter I

 

**Part I: Winter**

 

Once there was a storm. It came during the night as most storms do. Born out of just a few clouds and even fewer warnings, it crept into the Golden Realm, rampant and perfidious like a snake, hissing softly in the dark.

First, there was wind, whistling in men’s ears and tangling women’s hair. It was only a playful prelude to downfall, a hidden threat, for people welcomed wind. They did not fear it, but respected its power and its benevolence. Wind brought rain and life and relief in the summer months. Yes, people welcomed wind.

Yet on this night, young children did not chase after the stray petals of dandelions, blown away by mischievous gusts. No, the children only sought their mother to be comforted by the warmth of their hands. Elders did not abandon their knitting and woodcarving to stand in the open fields and feel the cool breeze soothe their heavy spirits and broken bodies. No, the elders only rubbed their aching joints and resolutely closed their doors.

There was intent in this wind, and it was subtle enough to freeze the air and lay the grounds for destruction. After the wind, came the snow.

 

*

 

His eyes snap open, unfocused and wild, and Thor lurches to the side of the bed instinctively, hand flying to cover his mouth. But there’s nothing left in his belly to throw up, and his throat works in vain as waves of nausea roll through his body. When it is over, he shifts on his back, dragging a heavy hand against his sweaty brow.

There is unrest in the back of his mind, but this is nothing new.

He waits until the rank whiffs of nausea have vanished from his mouth, until the raging beat of his heart has quieted down to a slow but strong drum. Only then does he sit up, feeling the mattress groan under his weight, and he rubs his eyes, stifling a sigh. His right arm feels slow and heavy, overused. A distant pain spreads down his back as he slowly, meticulously, rotates his shoulder.

He keeps his thoughts tightly leashed while he waits for the strained muscles in his shoulder to relax, repeating the verses of an old lullaby in cadenza with the smooth shifts of his arm. The slow flow of words helps him focus his mind and not exert his already overworked shoulder too hastily. It requires care and patience, control.

When he is satisfied, Thor rises and the sheet slides off his body, leaving him nude in the morning light. He lurches to the weapon stand where Thurmuth rests silently, and spread both hands on the cool leather sheathe.

_My strength to your strength,_ Thor begs silently but his sword stays unmoving under his palms. He bows his head in respect. In shame too, but that, he won’t admit.

A crow shrieks somewhere and he wrenches himself from the grounding weight of his weapon to find the bowl of water left by the low table under the window. The water is still cool and refreshing as he washes his face. He glances passively out of the window, drying his face, then running his fingers through the knots of his hair. The day is beautiful but promises to be hot; the sun is already warm on his skin.

_Hot but not stifling,_ Thor hopes silently.

The clothes that he hastily removed the night before have moved from the floor to his dressing stand as if by magic.

_A very special kind of magic,_ Thor thinks ruefully, _operated by a servant well versed in the arts of silence and efficiency._

The velvet trousers have been neatly folded, and without looking, Thor knows that the tears and the stains of yesterday are already forgotten. His soiled shirt has been replaced by a clean one, stubbornly white and offering him a quiet challenge to stay in that pristine state. Thor runs his fingers along the supple leather of his jerkin with longing. The fabric would fit him perfectly: the soft leather would embrace the curve of his shoulders without strain or discomfort and the cut of the garment would follow the narrowing of his torso to sit on his hips snugly when other clothing would just hang loose around his waist, betrayed by the width of his shoulders.

Thor sighs, wishing he could simply done the beloved jerkin that knows him so well and leave for the hunt. He hears the telltale rustling of the wind outside his window. Yes, the day would remain cool for a few hours still, more than enough to plunge into the forest between the moving stripes of lights and shadows. He can already feel the twigs catch his hair, smell the molded scent of moss and bark. The temptation is nearly overwhelming but with a shake of his head, he dismisses the idea.

_You spend too much time in the forest, my son._ The reproaches of his father still ring true in his ears. _What will the soldiers think if their commander spends his days frolicking in the undergrowth? Tomorrow, you must train. Show yourself, show your strength, remind them of your power._

Thor wanted to argue, like a child taken away from his game or deprived of his toy. The realm was at peace, the armies strong and the granaries full. Surely a day spent idle in the woods would not endanger the King’s peace? But Thor knew the argument of his father well.

_No hunt today, my son,_ his father always chided. _When the day comes and war is on our doorstep, she will not be a well-meaning relative. She will not accept your bread, your salt and bless your house. War will take you by surprise like a sickness, strike swift and true like the snow. What then if the armies choose to snigger at my son, the green lover, the moss eater? What then? No, my son, today you must train._

His fingers brush one last time against the leather before he turns towards to the other pile of clothes: a red shirt embroidered with gold thread, soft black trousers whose deep shine would never fade to betray too many washings, leather boots embossed with the runes of his house. They are quickly donned but hardly forgotten. They sit on him awkwardly like a false skin.

_Tomorrow_ , Thor consoles himself, _tomorrow_. But for the moment, the hunt waits.

 

His friends are already waiting for him in the training grounds. Although his breakfast was hasty, almost perfunctory, bread and butter washed down with honeyed tea, Thor is late and they are impatient. He can read it on their faces. There are ducks to be eaten, routines to be perfected, women to be wooed, tasks to be completed. Still, Thor greets them as he always does, assuredly and loudly, and their strained smiles are quick to dissipate. They can never resist the boyish smile of their prince after all, and after a few pats on the back, a handful of puns and small jibes, all is forgiven.

The training grounds are spacious and surrounded by imposing platforms of wood and stone. There are nine of them, surrounding a large circle of sand and sawdust where the soldiers train, and each sports the standard of their assigned regiment. As Thor surveys the training grounds, he is not surprised to see that the platforms are nearly deserted. The weather is too good and there is corn to be reaped. The people of Asgard know their duty and idleness is not a part of their habits. It suits Thor well that the platforms are empty but for the hunched figures of mothers carrying their infants against their breast and the eagers eyes of future recruits. Those are the usual spectators. The pubescent girls were told to keep calm or away many years ago. Their squeals would frighten the horses.

Thor strides swiftly between the rows of soldiers, all metal, unyielding men, ready to die and let other die for a cause they think just. Thor could recite the routine and the drills in his sleep. He yells orders and they obey. The first part of the day always leaves Thor in a stupor. Inspection, standing to attention, rehearsing maneuvers and drills, if only wars could be fought and won without all these structures, they’re but a chore to Thor’s impatient mind.

It is only after hours of drills, when finally the sun is high in the sky, that Thor can finally step into the ring. Sometimes, he takes time to fight new recruits and encourage their strengths. Sometimes, he singles out a soldier, finds the weaknesses in his posture or his defense and fights him until the soldier understands his flaws and corrects them. But today, Thor is too restless. His shoulder hurts and his hands shake with impatience as he leaves Thurmuth on the edge of the ring and picks up a blunt, harmless sword instead. Across the field Fandral smiles at him and Thor feels his lips stretch into an answering grin.

“Ready to lose again, my friend?” Thor calls.

A crow croaks in the distance, disturbed by Thor’s shout, and Fandral does not bother to answer him as he lunges with a straight swing of his sword, his left arm poised over his head, more for the sake of style than balance.

Thor parries the blow easily and answers with a broad stroke. He enjoys fighting his friend. Fandral has a flashy and loud style, cursing and laughing with each stroke, fooling his opponents into thinking he’s a fraud who will tire quickly but Thor knows perfectly that Fandral’s skills never suffer from his exuberance.

For a while, they play by the book, exchanging swift strokes, feinting to the left to deliver a broad swipe to the right. They know the steps of this dance by heart: thrusting, parrying, counterattacking.

_Dull,_ Thor thinks. He wants to sweat and bleed. 

With a grunt, Thor blocks Fandral’s violent thrust with the edge of his own sword, twisting his arm slightly to deviate the path of Fandral’s blow. It unbalances him, leaving a clear opening, and Thor surges towards him to knee Fandral in the belly. The crowd winces in unison as Fandral bends in two, trying to catch his breath. 

Thor steps back, trying to erase the smug smile from his face. In vain.

“Playing dirty, I see”, Fandral wheezes.

“You always rely too much on rules, my friend”, Thor answers adjusting his grip on the hilt of his sword. It was effective but foolish. Blocking that blow was costly and the echo of it still makes his arm tremble.

“Do I now,” his friend drawls. He raises his head and Thor only catches the glint of his teeth before Fandral is on him.

_Finally_ , Thor thinks as they forget the rules and start fighting like beasts. Thor’s mind becomes quiet, filled with mindless rage and the desire to overwhelm. He forgets the unfamiliar sword at the end of his hand, takes every opportunity when Fandral’s defense weakens, seeks every opening that may let his arm reach in Fandral’s space and bring him to his knees.

In those quiet moments of violence and pain, Thor almost feels whole again. 

He is careless and Fandral’s fist catches on his eyebrow. The skin breaks and the sudden trickle of blood is warm on his cheek. His friend raises his sword to end the fight but Thor barrels into him, forcing them to drop their swords and wrestle with their bare hands like angry children. Fandral is clever enough to know than sooner than later he will be overpowered by Thor’s strength and before they can fall together in the sand, Fandral twists his hand to deliver a weak blow to Thor’s head wound. Weak it may be but not ineffective: the pain is sharp and surprising and Thor loses his grip on his friend, letting Fandral scrambling away, breathing hard. Thor has to shake his head to clear the pain before he picks up their swords.

“You’re dedicated today, your Highness”, Fandral says with a faint smile, “something on your mind perhaps?”

“Do you have enough?” Thor shoots back, throwing Fandral’s sword back to his owner. “Do you yield?”

Fandral catches his weapon effortlessly, shrugging but the violent glint in his eye is unmistakable. He dusts himself off vaguely, then again, without warning, he charges. Thor loves this part best, when the edge of exhaustion makes every blow hurt and every muscle scream in tension. Thor delivers a series of blows, tightly organized in a ruthless combination. He can sense Fandral slowly falter under his assault and knows the victory is his.

He takes a step to the right, then a swift step closer to his opponent, which Fandral is not quick enough to anticipate.

_Now!_

Thor’s mouth stills in a smile and with a clever twist of his arm, Fandral finds himself divested of his sword and lying on his back, Thor’s sword hot against his throat.

“I ask again, my friend, do you yield?” Thor drawls as Fandral looks up at him, shifting and groaning, until he gives a hearty laugh. Thor forces himself to answer with a laugh of his own and he bends down to give Fandral a hand, helping him to his feet. He clasps his friend’s shoulder as Fandral rubs his lower back.

“I’ll be feeling that for weeks”, he whines and finally the crowd cheers. Thor raises a hand and salutes. It is expected. They cheer for him, the Golden Prince of Asgard, their undefeated warrior. He knows how he looks when he fights. For him, it all sums up to strength and instinct but he has heard how bystanders view him. Graceful, they call him, beautiful.

As a boy, Thor resented these words. _Women are beautiful_ , he used to snarl, _swans are graceful._ _I am neither._ He has grown wiser since and has learnt to recognize their praise. He understands how skills can be beautiful, how death can be graceful.

It was a good fight but it has not rested his nerves. Anger still boils under his skin like a snake and Thor does not understand it. The soldiers cheer for him. He has won a challenging bout. A cup of ale is waiting for him at the edge of the ring. His simple pleasures are being fulfilled and yet, Thor wants to lash out. There is violence simmering in his bones, malcontent and imperfection poisoning his mind.

He turns to salute his own platform where the admirers of the Front Regiment are cheering madly and his eyes fly over the hunched figures of mothers, past the eager eyes of future recruits. The top row of the platform is empty and Thor’s arm stops mid-wave.

_Empty?_  

His stomach burns hot and heavy and his mouth clogs with the stink of pines and rotten apples. The smell of it makes him nauseous. The taste of it rests bitter on his tongue.

“Well fought, my son”, a familiar voice says in his ear, “but enough for today.”

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder and as his gaze finally meets his father’s guarded eyes, the darkness in Thor’s mind has receded.

 

*

 

A man in Asgard cannot be called a warrior if he does not possess a weapon. It can be a sword, a bow or a spear; it hardly matters. But the weapon must yield to his warrior and the warrior must yield to his weapon. That is the way.

First, Thor went to the Dvergad with heaps of gold. With a greedy glint in they eyes, the dwarves forged Dáinsleif but the mighty sword remained cold and dry in Thor’s hand, and he left their land weaponless and ashamed. Years later, when he heard that she bestowed her love upon the mortal King Högni, Thor brawled in the taverns of the citadel until Volstagg and Fandral knocked him unconscious and dragged him away.

For years, he searched in vain and the ball of his palm grew coarse and red for gripping the rugged handle of wooden swords and unworthy weapons. For years, he searched for the weapon that would sing in his hand.

He was rejected at every turn.

Doubt grew like weeds in his heart while the whispers swelled behind his back.

_How can he lead us,_ the people muttered behind their raised hands, _he who is weaponless?_

Desperate, Thor accepted the wildest challenges, the most dangerous quests. He travelled to Nilfheim, where he slew the dragon to free Hrotti. But the sword did not kiss his hand in gratitude, only burned his fingers. He sought the damage twig of the old tales, but as he grasped Laevateinn _,_ the staff remained simple wood in his fingers. Countless others he courted. All rejected him until one day, when he returned to Asgard, defeated yet again, his father presented him with Thurmuth and Thor accepted her, head bowed in relief and shame.

Thurmuth is strong and grounding, but Thor knows her ugly flaw: she has no soul. There’s no ripple under his hand, no encouragement during battles, no joy in victories.

She is soulless. And Thor fears what it means for him, he who wields it.

 

*

 

The King of Asgard stands in the training grounds and the soldiers fall back to form a respectful circle around him. Even the cocky Fandral takes a step back, bowing his head slightly.

“Father,” Thor says instead of a greeting, and he motions a boy to bring him a cup of ale.

“Enough for today,” his father repeats. “Make yourself presentable and dine with me tonight.”

Thor wants to decline but his father is already moving away, offering a few nods and words to the soldiers and he sighs, used to his father’s prompt dismissals. He drinks his ale in one huge swallow, throwing back the cup to the young squire, and he takes his leave, although making his way out of the grounds takes him considerably longer than his father and involves more pats on the back and impromptu cups of ale.

When he finally makes it back to his chambers, he is almost late. He washes the grim of his body, taking a few moments to clean the blood of his face, pressing a clean cloth against his eyebrow until the bleeding recedes. He quickly slips on the clothes laid for him and he hurries through the hallways, finally pushing the doors of his father’s usual room with a familiar sense of foreboding.

His father is standing on the terrace, looking out to the sea and he is not alone and his mother is sitting quietly at the table, unmoving, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“Thor,” she says, rising immediately, and a small smile graces her face.

“Mother,” he says with surprise and he sweeps her into a fierce hug, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. His antics make her laugh and he takes advantage of the silly moment to collect himself.

Thor cannot remember when last he supped with his father and his mother. The great lords and ladies always find offense in the most trivial actions and Thor wonders why his father would leave such an opening for complaints for the sake of dining alone with his wife and heir. Still, Thor has long learned not to question his father’s actions too deeply. The Allfather is wise and none of his actions are unconsidered, so Thor releases his mother and sits at the dark wooden table as Odin leaves the quiet contemplation of his realm.

They are served a juicy pheasant and potatoes gorged with butter while he wine and the discussion flow gently. Those moments are only too rare. He has fond memories of his family, of long evenings spent lying in front of the hearth at his mother’s feet. She would sew and tell him stories; he would listen and dream. The rug was always rough under his cheek, but the heat of the fire would make drowsy even as he fought to stay awake a little longer listening to his mother’s voice. With his father, he used to take long walks through Asgard. While they wandered, his father explained how things stood in the realm. He spoke of politics, history, or economics. Thor did not always listen avidly, sometimes he was distracted by the wonders of the city but his father was always patient with him, sometimes frustratingly so, pushing Thor to do anything to rile him up and see how far the Allfather could tolerate his troublemaking. But his father never wavered in his calm countenance and Thor always grew bored and started to listen. He learned more about kingship during these walks than during the countless hours spent with tutors and masters.

His mother and father have been the constant pillars of his childhood, taking time for him and his demands. But for years now, rare have been the times when his father and his mother would sit together in any occasion not public or ceremonial. When he felt he was man enough to put the childish fears behind him, he asked his mother why his father would never sit with them during long evenings as they used to. His mother’s eyes lost some of their glowing quality then, Thor remembers, and only stroked his hair, slowly, saying nothing.

Thor never asked again.

His head is throbbing slightly. The wound has not reopened but the skin above his eye feels tender. He wonders if he should enquire after Fandral. In retrospect, he realizes that their bout has been intense and perhaps too violent for the training grounds. He worries his friend could resent him when Thor knows his superiority as a warrior. Bad blood between friends is the worst poison.

A soft hand lands on his wrist. “Your head?

“It is nothing”, Thor says covering his mother’s hand with his own.

“Your father told me you fought well today,” Frigga says placidly and Odin nods, a serious expression settling on his face.

“Yes, Fandral is an interesting opponent. I never tire of his tricks.”

A small smile graces Frigga’s face and Thor is once again shaken, witnessing the quiet beauty of his mother.

“It is always a small wonder to see him all grown up,” she comments. “I was convinced the little imp would torment me forever.”

“He is a good friend. Although –“ Thor hesitates, and his mother looks at him encouragingly, “although I fear I was too hard on him. Sometimes it seems I forget my strength.”

“Nonsense,” the voice of his father cuts, “he is a warrior, a commander in my army. He should face challenges proudly, or he is not worthy of his rank.”

The Allfather’s tone leaves no room for discussion but Thor has always been stubborn.

“Of course,” he argues, “nevertheless, I will ensure nothing is amiss.”

His father snorts but his mother squeezes his hand, silently agreeing.

_My mother,_ he thinks _, my lovely mother. So gentle yet so sad._

It has been many years since Thor has seen his mother truly smile. She has been steady in her affections, never lacking tenderness for her son or attention for her subjects, but always a sad glint would remain in her eyes, a quiet desperation settled deep in her bones.

Afterwards, he will wonder why he even forces the words crowding his mind when he knows in advance the hurt he will bring.

_Stubbornness, foolishness, maybe._

_Anger,_ a treacherous voice whispers in his mind.

“Volstagg, Hogun, Sif even, what friend would I be if I did not worry for their wellbeing”, he shrugs. “They are like siblings to me. Fandral, he is the closest thing I have to a brother.”

The chill falls abruptly. His mother’s hand grows stiff in his own; her eyes turn steely.

She raises a hand to his cheek. “You have heart, my son,” she says and there is no tremor in her voice to betray her unease. “Treat it well.”

Silently, she stands and walks away. Odin lets her go. He always lets her go.

“Thor,” his father begins when the doors have closed behind his mother and leave the silence as the only ruler, “tomorrow—”

“No, father,” Thor cuts, his voice ringing in the room, level despite the thunderous beating of his heart, ”tomorrow, I hunt.”

 

*

 

Thor went to war only once. He had been young then. He knows that now even if he thought himself a man at that time.

Thor languished for blood and violence, but his father stubbornly denied him these simple pleasures. Thor was strong and big for his age. Younger boys, slighter and slower than him, had long followed their fathers and brothers into battles. He had already trained for many years and he knew his worth. Undoubtedly, his skills were more than enough to grant him victory and ensure his safe return but when danger reared its ugly head and war crept to their doorstep, only Thor, it seemed, stayed behind. His father always seemed loath to part with him. There were always some diplomats to contend, or urgent business to address and Thor could never be spared.

It was an endless point of dispute between Thor and the king. How could Thor learn the true ways of warfare, how could his men trust him and follow his lead if he never even saw battle, if the only blood he ever drew was those of animals he hunted? But his father never relented.

_It is too soon,_ his father always decided. _Do not defy me when you are but a boy._

The rebellions at their borders, the uprising in the west, Thor saw none of them, only the warriors as they returned with glorious tales of their victories.

It all changed when trouble stirred in Jotunheim even if Thor had not expected any difference. Despite the growing concerns of his father and the council, Thor had taken no interest in the increasingly worried reports of their northern outpost and while his rank demanded that he be present to the final war council, he had drowsed throughout the meeting, half out of spite, half out of genuine inattention because of a debilitating headache that only excesses of ale could provide.  

The advisers droned about this new threat looming at their doorstep, cowering in the darkness of the north like animals. Thor had lost the thread of the conversation almost immediately, unbothered by their incessant jabbering. He knew all there was to know about the king of the ninth realm, Laufey.

_Wielder of magic,_ he read in the books. _Master of deceit,_ the seasoned warriors grumbled, averting their eyes. _Father of downfall,_ the rumors had whistled in his ears. Thor had collected many names but at the end of his investigation, he had but one conclusion for the King of Jotunheim: coward.

There would be no glory in quenching the doomed rebellion of a king long past his glory. Thor thought it a last desperate scheme to grant himself a death worthy of a warrior but no victory awaited Laufey in the fields of battle: the Valkyries did not ride for the likes of the Spellcrafter King.

After decades of tenuous truce between the two kingdoms, Thor wondered why Laufey would choose this moment to threaten Aesir lives and peace. The animosity between Asgard and Jotunheim had been open and sharp, born from feuds long gone but never forgotten and Thor had no respect for the King of Jotunheim.

This was what he claimed in public, usually loudly. But there was one detail that he envied the foreign king. Although Laufey was famed for his weak arm and his affection for shadowy arts, he had many sons and he groomed their strengths. They were fearsome warriors, fighting with icy blades that shattered even the best Aesir iron, known and feared throughout the realms as leaders of their father’s armies, as sparks of rebellions and destruction. It was almost ironic. Their father was never seen on the battlefield, sending his sons to wage wars in his stead, while Thor’s own father and liege was a master of wars while he kept his heir hidden in the recesses of his palace. 

Perhaps this was why Laufey was launching a frontal campaign on Asgard although his strength was long rumored to be depleting: he thought Thor weak and Odin old. He saw an opportunity, and it burned Thor to know his valor and let this foe imagine such dishonor.

Still, it was only Thor’s fancy. He knew not of the reasons behind Laufey’s senseless approach, only that his armies would soon be at Asgard’s borders. And so the armies of the Allfather prepared to march as Thor sat at the council table, listless and struggling to hide his yawns, until his father did the unexpected and taught him a lesson, that Thor, it seemed, would never learn.

“Thor”, his father announced, voice like a whip, “you will ride with me.”

Thor only stared at his father, as if the words could not quite permeate his brain.

“My lord!” Tyr gasped.  

“You and I will ride together,” Odin repeated, “or would you rather stay behind with your mother?”

His father looked at him expectantly and Thor forcefully pushed back his surprise and the cold tremor that suddenly coiled in his belly. He rose to his feet, fist coming up to rest upon his heart in respect. “You know I have longed for nothing else but to fight beside you, Father.”

“Have you now?”

“Of course”, Thor assured but his father only shook his head dismissing his words.

“My lord,” Tyr tries again, surging to his feet, “surely—“

“Thor,” his father cut again, ignoring the interruption. “Make your preparations, be ready at noon.”

Thor nodded sternly, used to his father’s curt dismissals. He left the council’s chambers heart singing. It would be a coward’s battle, but a battle nonetheless.

He made quick work of his preparations: a bundle of clothes, his weapons and armor, the small wooden wolf that he kept foolishly as a memento of his childhood, a kiss to his mother, and he was standing with his comrades, laughing as if all of them would return.

When dreaming of war, Thor had never thought of the mundane aspects of it. In his mind, war was an ideal, a state of grace: fight, bleed and die for glory, for your king and fatherland. But suddenly, he was on the march, and the confrontation to the realities of warfare was like a slap in the face. His days were divided between long walks and longer waits when too much distance separated the different regiments. Hygiene became secondary, food and rest accessory. He quickly realized that his title was for naught in this march. He might have been a prince, but he chose to walk with the soldiers of his regiment, and he was treated as such. 

The march became blurry as exhaustion slowly took over his mind. Landscapes seemed to change overnight and he could hardly say where they had been the last day or the day before. From afar, he watched his father who led the armies with grim conviction, unperturbed, unlike Thor, by the cruel surrounding of an army taking the field.

The king stood as always, tall and undefeated, while Thor grew more haggard everyday, nauseated by the anxiousness and the rancid smell of too many unwashed bodies. For the first time, he wondered if his father had been right and he truly had been too young and untried.

The first man to die was a squire and he died long before they even glimpsed, heard or smelled Laufey’s armies. He was taken by a swift sickness. The rhythm of the march was unrelenting. Exhaustion slowly crept in the bones of the soldiers, aided by stale food and moldy water. The squire complained one night that he was cold, went to sleep shivering and sweating in his bedroll and simply never woke up.

_Men die of sickness everywhere,_ Thor had thought, refusing to be rattled. He had been expecting such casualties.

The second man, however, the second man to die came as a surprise. Thor had always thought the Aesir soldiers to be just and faultless, raucous and bloodthirsty, yes, but serious and imperturbable. That second soldier was killed by a ruthless swipe of a sharp dagger across his neck. He was murdered by another soldier, an angry father or a jealous husband, perhaps; the details were blurry. Needless to say, there was an exchange of heated words, a few shoves and insults, then an outright fight that spread like wild fire throughout the camp. Amidst the brawl and the confusion, the blade slipped through the man’s neck like butter. 

The third man to lose his life was the murderer and Thor watched him die. Justice was swift in times of war and the Allfather had neither patience nor pity for such cases. The murderer was brought in front of the commanders and Odin announced the sentence loud and clear, so that every soldier could hear.

_A father,_ Thor had thought, watching the man fall to his knees in front of the king, head bowed, _he must be a father, seeking retribution for his daughter’s lost honor._

The commander’s strike was sure and strong when he took the man’s head off. The sound of it hitting the ground and rolling almost comically in the dirt had been lost amongst the breaths of hundreds of men assembled to watch but the sight of gushing blood, the sour smell of a shattered spine was impossible to ignore.

_Yes, a father,_ Thor told himself, feeling the bile rise in the back of his throat, bathing the back of his teeth. _A father would stoop to every folly, even the most terrible of crimes, to protect his child._

After that third death, Thor stopped counting. He straightened his spine and steeled his heart. They marched. Day after day, they marched, in the wind and in the rain, under the sun and under the stars. Thor rode with his comrades rather than his father for most of the journey. He felt the need to live next to these men, but soon, they grew cold and resentful.

One man called him _ergi._ Thor rode with his father after that, but only when he understood that the man’s pitiful moans were the only apology he would receive. He could not speak face down in the dirt with a broken jaw.

The regiments met the vanguard, whose incessant reports of the approach of the Jotun’s massive armies had led the Allfather to war, at the unofficially permanent camp around the northern outpost of Asgard and Thor saw immediately that the terrain was favorable to battle. The men erected the King’s tent on a hill, with a gentle slope that would slow down Laufey’s armies. A deep but sluggish river circled the hill and would assure them an endless supply of water. Even the sense of the flow was favorable to the Aesirs, eliminating any risk of foul play. Thor could see all the advantages of the grounds and he was suddenly confident that Laufey’s armies would be hard pressed to surpass the might of Asgard.

Only, the Jotun armies were nowhere to be seen.

“There is no understanding, my king”, the commander of the vanguard nearly whined, bent on his knees in front of the Allfather, “the sun rose this morning and the armies were gone.”

“Rise, commander,” Odin ordered, “and explain yourself.”

The man rose but he stayed silent, refusing to meet the Allfather’s eyes, wringing his hands like a worried woman.

“Your riders have come for weeks with messages begging us to make haste before the northern armies could cross our border and trample our land. With haste we have ridden, my son and I, leading the full armies of the realm. Speak quickly, commander,” Odin threatened, “or the men lusting for blood will have your skin.”

“My Lords,” the man said,” for three moons, the men of the vanguard have watched your enemies approach the border. Ten thousands, they were. We could hear their grim songs carried with the wind and each day they loomed closer threatening the courage of my men and the peace of your kingdom.”

“But you say there are no armies,” Thor argued, and his gaze lingered on the horizon where the grasslands stretched endless in the distance, “I see no foes here.”

“They were, my lord”, the commander swore, voice pitching in a desperate tone. “Ask any of my men and they will swear on their life that the Jotuns were invading our fatherland. But two days ago, we could smell their fires, hear their cries and in our hearts, we knew that we were lost if you did not come.” He paused, rubbing his eyes. His hand was shaking. “I executed three honest men, my lords, three honest men whose courage failed and tried to desert.” He turned and gestured below them, towards a small group of trees. “Behold, here they hang.”

At first, Thor could not make sense of the forms. The trees had grown tightly together. Only when a breeze ruffled through the branches, Thor could distinguish three alien bodies, hanging limply from the massive branches, close to the trunks.

Odin rose, shifting his mighty spear in his hands. “I believe you, commander”, he said, “but where are the armies now?”

“It is beyond me, my liege,” the man admitted, “we rejoiced yesterday, when our scouts brought news of your imminent arrival. My men thought they would live after all and their songs and laughs lasted long through the night. The wind was blowing north, masking the smell of the enemies and the sound of their hellish drums. The stars were veiled, but I assigned my own boy to stand as one vigil for this final night.”

The man paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was ragged.

“I trust him, my boy, he is strong and far too clever. But when he woke me this morning, his eyes were wide. He looked frightened, as if he had just woken up from a nightmare and was looking for his mother. They’re gone, father, he said to me, the armies are gone, vanished during the night.”

The man whisted and only silence met his last words. Odin stalked forward suddenly, advanced until the edge of the camp, Thor following closely.

“What is this, father?” he asked.

“Trickery,” his father had whispered as a cry rose in the camp.

“Riders! Riders!” a guard was yelling. “Riders approaching!”

His father turned back to him, laying a heavy hand on Thor’s shoulder. “Come, Thor, my heir, ride with me.”

“Father—”

“Remember, my son, Laufey is all lies and trickery. His ways are but smoke and shadow. Trust no word of his; his race has neither honor, nor loyalty, only magic and deceit.”

So Thor rode, although at that time he did not understand what chaos he was approaching. He followed the swift pace of his father, surrounded by the proud commanders of the regiments.

The armies watched them ride silently; the rumors had spread like pestilence. _Witchcraft_ , the men whispered, _we marched to an empty field. The Jotuns have vanished. Are we to fight wind and grass?_

They met the riders in the open field under the cloudless sky. There were just three of them, all riding astride half-starved grey stallions. For long had Thor imagined how the rumored Jotun cowards would look. He usually pictured puny men with hunched backs or womanlike features, long and pointy noses, deep-seated eyes and shrill voices. Instead, he encountered tall men, undoubtedly taller than him, sitting proudly on their feeble mounts. They wore amour, simple pieces, neither varnished nor decorated. Thor saw a breastplate, crude gauntlets, but hidden under heavy furs that covered their shoulders. The most striking feature, however, was their skin. It had a greyish blue tint, almost cadaverous and Thor fleetingly wondered if the paint would come off easily under his fingers. Unlike the Aesir, their faces were clean-shaven, and their hair cropped so short they would have been bald if they did not cover their heads with ornaments of bones and stones.

_Are those the fearful sorcerers of Jotunheim?_ Thor wondered. _They look like warriors._

They wore the marks of warrior. Broad shoulders made to carry heavy armor, and long scars as testimonies of their experiences. Despite the distance, Thor could clearly see how the flesh of the tallest Jotun’s right man has been pulled back together, leaving the limb looking slightly deformed, utterly wrong.

As they approached, the man in the middle urged his horse forward, leaving the two others slightly behind him.

“Well met, Odin Borson,” the man, the Jotun King, Thor understood, said with a voice like gravel.

“Laufey,” his father boomed, “what madness is this?”

The King of Jotunheim only smiled. “Must you always think me mad, Odin? I only wished to earn your undivided attention.”

“And draw the entire armies of Asgard to you when you have no troops to your name?”

“Do you never learn, King of Asgard?” Laufey replied quietly. “All these years we have fought and yet you still ignore the ways how we, Jotuns, wage wars. What need do I have of armies when I have you outwitted at every turning and play you for a fool in front of your entire armies?”

“Watch your tongue, King of Nothingness,” Odin snapped as quietly. “You have pretty tricks but your schemes are failing, doomed and parlous. Be assured that your folly will never comes to fruition.”

“These are but your hopes, the last foolish reassurance of your old stubborn mind, refusing to acknowledge your defeat,” Laufey sneered with grating confidence and Thor bristled, itching to defend his father. “You think that you have vanquished my plans, that you are safe in your castle but you are a fool. This is but a small respite. Your house is corrupted, Odin, and weak. Your line is broken and Asgard will fall.”

_Lies and deceit,_ his father had said, _lies and deceit._ Thor waited for his father’s clever retort, for a clear dismissal. Only it did not come. His father kept his silence, eyes dimming _._

_Mighty father,_ Thor thought in despair, _what could you fear of him, this conjurer?_

“Rue this day when you dared insult the rulers of Asgard, Jotun”, Thor barked, desperate to break this silence his father allowed. “Know that the House of Odin is strong and forever prosperous.”

Only then did Laufey look at him.

“Thor Odinson,” he simply said, eyes pining him down, ensnaring him like a snake, “how fierce you look.”

He gestured behind him to the two silent riders. “Meet my sons, Helblindi and Býleistr. Watch the face of my blood carefully, Aesir, and know that your throne will be in their hands when you die.”

“When I die?” Thor repeated, incredulous, hand going to the hilt of his sword.  “Tell your boys to unsheathe their swords if you are convinced they shall conquer my birthright. I will gladly prove you and your pretty daughters wrong.”

The easy provocation was only met with laughter. “When the time comes, Prince, you will willingly surrender your throne to the Princes of Jotunheim.”

“Not if I kill them today,” Thor growled, unsheathing his sword, urging his horse forward.

A smile broke on his face as he watched Býleistr and Helblindi draw their own swords. Long and broad, they were fearsome weapons, sure to crash Thor’s ribcage through his armor or smash his head if Thor was too slow or careless. It would be a challenging fight to face two renowned Jotun warriors, but he knew he could prevail. His blood was singing. Finally he could achieve glorious deeds worthy of songs and long recounting into the nights.

“Thor—“ his father yelled, but he ignored him, intent on blood and revenge for the words of the Jotun King. But when he raised his arm, ready to strike a heavy blow on Helblindi’s neck, his sword simply sliced through air, and Thor’s momentum nearly threw him off his stallion.

He watched with horror as the images of the three Jotuns slowly blurred and vanished.

“Your boy is a fool, Odin, as are you,” Laufey’s voice echoed somberly. “The next time we meet, Allfather, I will hold your son’s heart in my hand and you will beg me for a quick death.”

 

*

 

Thor drifts restlessly through the night and at dawn, when he can bear no more of his swirling thoughts and half-mad dreams, he stands. He knows his chambers well and the lingering darkness does not prevent him to dress swiftly. His clothes are where he left them and he lets a relieved sigh escape him as he dons his leather jerkin. As expected, the fabric sits on his shoulders like a second skin and its reassuring presence is like a balm for Thor’s mind.

_The hunt,_ his blood sings, _finally, the hunt._

His fingers brush against the runes engraved on Thurmuth. Although he cannot see them, his fingers follow the small careful dents in the metal. _To your strength I bow,_ the engraving reads.

_A sword that will respect your strength, my son,_ his father said when Thor received Thurmuth and tested her balance in his right hand. The heavy broad sword suits him, straightforward and strong, but today, Thor does not pick her up. Thurmuth is a weapon for battle and enemies. It longs for the open field, to be brandished high above his head in defiance, accompanied with a mighty battlecry. It would be ill suited to the shadows of the forest, where a weapon must be discreet and practical. It is too long and heavy to be drawn in the narrow spaces between trees. Instead, Thor chooses a simple axe. Thor calls it a simple weapon but a peasant might see it otherwise. Only a spoiled prince would call it a simple weapon for it is by no means rudimentary. Its handle is made out of the darkest wood and protected with thick leather, while its blade has been skillfully forged by a master blacksmith. Its balance is perfect and it rests without effort in Thor’s hand. He secures the axe on his back and as a final touch, slips a dagger in his right boot.

The hallways are deserted. The fires are not yet lit and the servants are only stirring in their beds. He dives into a narrow stairwell that leads to the kitchen. The old cook is dozing in front of the hearth while her dog is worrying a bone at her feet. She does not wake and while the dog raises his head, she dismisses him immediately. His morning visits are not unusual.

The pantry is full and Thor hesitates for a moment. He could travel light to advantage his pace but the food looks tasty and he knows his appetites. Finally, he opens his satchel and chooses a plump duck, a whole wheel of cheese, a loaf of bread left from yesterday and a large jug of wine sealed tightly by a rubber cork. He eyes the apples warily; they look ripe and juicy. His horse would be grateful but he pockets a handful of pears instead.

Carrying his heavy bounty under one arm, he leaves the kitchen and strides swiftly across empty courtyards. His horse is still slumbering in his stall but he wakes up readily enough with the promise of excitement and a long, hard ride. The sun is barely shining over the horizon when Thor bursts out of the city’s gates. Mount and rider know this road well and there is no room left for hesitation as they ride down the gentle slope where the fields of barley begin. There, the road splits in half, to the right where the gravel continues and leads merchants to the sea, and to the left, where the path becomes narrower and less travelled. Thor’s horse takes the left road without a word from his rider and leads them north, past the fields of barley and into the forest.

They ride fast and the wind tangles Thor’s hair, loosening the leather thong he uses to tie it back. Thor grabs it hastily before it is lost.

They fly past Heimdall’s farm but Thor does not even consider stopping to greet his friend. It is early yet: Heimdall and his wife would still be sleeping and they deserve their night’s rest. After years of welcoming only sons, they have finally been gifted with a precious girl. She is beautiful, their baby girl, with bright blue eyes and nearly translucent hair, softer than the richest silk. She would break many hearts in the future, Thor has prophesized when he held for the first time. And it was as if she knew how precious and beautiful she was for she was demanding, always requesting attention, crying incessantly. Only recently had she started sleeping through the night and Thor knows better than to interrupt the well-earned rest of her parents. 

Heimdall’s farm lies at the end of the gravel road, just at the edge of the forest, and it takes only moments for the powerful strides of his horse to cross the few stretches of grass and to dive between the trees. 

Entering the forest always leaves Thor unsettled. There is no warning. One moment he rides in the open fields, the sun beating down on his head, and the next, they are captured by an entirely different space, where the world shifts in a second. The atmosphere grows heavy, the air thin. The sun bows down to the intricate foliage and only shines by intermittence when the leaves are disturbed by the wind. Here his horse slows down and Thor pats reassuringly his powerful neck. Despite their countless escapades into the forest, his horse has never come to trust this shadow world as Thor does.

_He is the clever one and I am the fool,_ Thor thinks depreciatingly.

Few people ventures in the woods, or if they do, they never delve deep far into them. The foresters prefer to work longer and harder on the sickly trees that border the edge of the forest rather than fell healthy and sturdy trees that grow too far in the heart of the forest and if the chassis of a cart fractures in an accident or if the frame of a house weakens prematurely, the villagers never complain. The huntsmen, all grown and sensible men, chase weak fowls and lost deer who wander unknowingly too close to the human settlements than follow herds of prey into the shadows. If they come back from the hunt empty handed, no one dares to laugh at them and name them cowards. All understand the forest and its dangers. The people prefer to forbear meat for a fortnight than lose a father, a son, or a husband. Even the children, whose nature always leads them into the most dangerous situations and the most stupid traps, search for berries only if they can see the sun and the golden fields through the trees. Their gluttony would never lead them further in the darkness and never has a child been lost to the forest.

There was a time, too, when Thor was younger, where he did not defy common sense so brazenly. He did not leave the city for months on end. Enough fun and adventures were to be had within the ramparts of the city. His friends were distraction enough for his young soul. He discovered ale and gambling. When he grew bored of taverns, he turned to the training grounds to spend long hours honing his fighting skills and his body. He took time to chase after girls, honing his skills and his body in that respect too. But after years of fighting and whoring, Thor grew too brave or too foolish.

It took him but two hours to gather all his friends and convince them to accompany him on a hunt. He was prepared to cajole and bargain until his voice was hoarse. But his friends conceded so quickly than Thor barely had the time to grab provisions and an axe from the armory before they were all riding towards the forest, allowing only their too loud laughs to betray their nervousness.

Their nurses had never skipped the gory details of the wooden tales but they were young and beautiful, already leaders of men, and they would not be frightened by old women’s’ tales. Soon they caught the trail of a deer; it was not unlike scouting for enemy’s movements. But they quickly learned that hunting was a dirty affair, far removed from anything they knew and by the time they returned to the city with the deer slung over the croup of Thor’s horse, they were exhausted, sweaty, and muddy. The hair was standing wildly on Hogun’s head, he who would always stay cool and composed. Sif, too, was showing dark smudges and cuts on her face although she easily passed for the most elegant woman in Asgard, even in full armor. Volstagg, well, he had simply fallen off his horse and resembled more a mad mud man than a proud Aesir warrior.

Thor couldn’t have cared less how he looked. His friends begged for a last drink to celebrate their very first kill, already talking excitedly about their prowess, but Thor bade them goodnight to seek solace in the baths. The water was warm and soothing as Thor rested his head on the white marble and let his heart explode in joy. For his friends it had been a challenging day out, a good sport, a way to prove they were above laws and superstitions. For Thor, it had been a revelation.

The scent of pines, the rustle of the wind in the leaves, the deafened sound of his horse’s hooves on the soft ground, it was like going home. Thor could not explain it. The sounds of the forests made his mind finally quiet. The world narrowed down to the core; the superfluous disappearing to reveal the anger only. He was finally free in those woods, free to roam the grounds of his father, free to hunt. He was like a mad man. He wanted to lift every stone, look in every rift or cave. When he finally caught his prey, the satisfaction blooming in his guts was like nothing he had ever known. But slitting the deer’s throat did not assuage his anger, his inexorable desire to hunt and to destroy. Thor closed his eyes then and felt tears pool at the corners of his eyes.

_I have to hunt,_ he thought desperately, _I must._

After that first trip in the forest, Thor’s entire life tipped into madness. He was obsessed. He would trick his friends into accompanying him. They obliged him for a while but even the Prince of Asgard grew tiresome and one by one, they made their excuses and soon Thor was alone when he breached the edge of the forest. His loneliness, however, did not impact on his pleasure. On the contrary, free of Fandral’s complaints, of Volstagg’s exuberance that would frighten the birds and Sif’s calls for safety, Thor was finally free to pursue any clue, to follow any trail that may lead him to his goal.

This was his life for many months.

His father watched him silently, disapproval etched deep in the lines of his face. But he never said a word or raised his hand to slap his cheek and make him see reason. Thor worked hard, harder that he ever did in his life to take care of his duties. Each day, the workload grew; the Allfather never lacked imagination. But Thor never failed in his duties and so the King could never forbid him his hunts without losing face. Thor spent hours in the training grounds and sitting in the council chambers with his father but inescapably, his mind would wander and he would dream of what he would find today, what wonders would the forest choose to reveal to him. Every day he would saddle his horse and ride for the woods spending the time he could, be it one or ten hours.

For a while, it was enough but he grew reckless. He came back with bruises and deep cuts until the bone deep ache in his arms and legs, the lancing tension in his right shoulder never quite faded. He was greedy until one day he woke up covered in blood in the rotten leaves and had to return to his king, limping and haggard, without his horse. On that day, Odin stood from his throne and sent him packing to the south, forcing the hunt out of Thor’s mind.

 

His horse suddenly loses his footing and Thor scrambles to rein him in. He is too greedy and sometimes he forgets how tricky the path is for his stallion. With a calming word, the horse slows down and they continue down the path. Soon, Thor glimpses the boulder shaped as a lying dog and forces his horse to leave the path and continue deeper in the forest. They ride for a long time, too slow to Thor’s liking but the ground is always faulty and slippery. Impatience has no place during a hunt as Thor has learned many times at his own expense.

Thor sings softly to himself as his horse avoids the upturned roots of a tree and zigzags between bushes. His rumbling bass drones deep in his chest but the sounds die quickly as they escape his mouth, absorbed by the thick canopy. He cannot remember well the words or the melody. His mother used to lull him to sleep with this song and her rendering had been as tentative as his own. It is far from the battle songs he and his warrior use to bellow through the fields. His friends would laugh at him if they knew how he indulges in songs of gallantry but in the quiet spaces in the forest he has found they are the best suited.

_So come close my fair one, who holds my life captive in your eyes,_ he hums softly. His horse’s ears flick slightly at the sound. _Rebel no more against me since my heart is yours. And to appease my ill, give me a kiss._

He is still humming softy, repeating the few verses he still remembers when the trees suddenly open before him and the clearing appears. With a faint pressure of Thor’s thighs, his horse stops and he dismounts. He does not bother tying the reins of his stallion. The beast has long been trained not to wander off without orders and he’s arrogant enough to bite the head off of any creature that may come to importune him, be it a flea, a wolf, or a thief.

Thor knows this clearing well; he discovered it soon during the first weeks of his hunts. It is not beautiful by any means: plain, small and frustratingly irregular. There could have been a beautiful meadow in the center of it, filled with wild flowers, perhaps even a fresh bubbling stream. But no, it is too small to offer any beauty. The trees around it are too high and the sun too weak; only moss covers the ground. Despite its humble look, Thor has fond memories of this place. He goes to the dead oak lying across the meadow. The tree must have been beautiful once, proud and erect in the forest, but its glory has long faded. It died painfully, eaten away by sickness and insects. Thor has seen it slowly decay, standing hunched like an old man until one day, he found it fallen, finally defeated. He sets a hand on the rotten trunk for balance and bends down to face the entry of a small burrow. He thrusts his free hand into it but his fingers only find twigs and the bones of dead voles. He straightens, clicking his tongue in disappointment.

_Where are you hiding, boy?_ He wonders, letting his gaze sweep across the meadow and soon enough, he spots a white patch where the sun is still shining weakly.

“You lazy fiend,” Thor mutters, feeling his lips stretch into a smile. He approaches swiftly, digging into his pockets for a forgotten piece of dried meat. The small stoat is laying on a smooth stone warmed by the sun, curled tight into a ball, and Thor falls on his knees, feeling the wetness of the moss seep into the fabric of his trousers.

“Here, boy”, Thor calls softly offering the small token in the palm of his hand. The stoat immediately raises its pointy head, clever eyes lightning up, and the animal dives for his hand. Thor chuckles, not surprised as the stoat makes quick work of the dried meat, gulping it down in ravenous swallows, immediately looking for more.

“Greedy little beast”, Thor mutters leaving his hand open for inspection. The stoat soon loses hope and gently gnaws the scar left on the tender skin of Thor’s palm where the thumb meets his index. The small teeth marks have never faded on his hand, where the stoat had bitten hard and viciously. But now, as the small animal nips and licks the vestiges of his handiwork, Thor feels no resentment for the creature and his free hand sinks into the soft white fur that glows silver in the summer sun.

 

*

 

Years ago, his mother took ill. She had always been a strong woman and seeing her lying abed and grey faced struck a sensitive chord within Thor’s soul. He sat long hours next to her, trying to warm her cold hand between his own, holding his breath in agony, praying that some strength would return to her limp fingers.

When the fever did not break, they all thought her gone. The illness was widespread throughout the city. The masters blamed the rats, brought by merchant ships and the heat. The summer had been excruciating; the sky cloudless for months on end and there had been many fires in the fields, decimating the few sickly crops. In this unforgiving climate, the illness had strived. Though it did not kill systematically, it affected many and only if the cleansing fever did not break after the fourth day would the patient most certainly die. The queen spent more than a week sweating in the throes of fever. By the end of the eighth day, she grew delirious and Thor desperate.

“Thor, my son,” she would rasp again and again, “you must be strong. You must forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Thor would answer each time without fail, kissing her fingers, “ _you_ must be strong. You will live.”

During the night of the ninth day, her fever finally broke after heavy storm clouds gathered over the city skyline and rain poured in the streets, into the outstretched arms of the people like a gift from the gods.

The queen lived and the people rejoiced. But the illness left deep lines in her face, a bone deep coldness that would not abate regardless of the fires lit in her chambers or the quality of furs stretched above her frail body.

When the exhaustion on his mother’s face was too much to bear, Thor would leave and go riding in the forest. There, he ignored the haunting call of the hunt and stretched for hours in the tender moss, rising only when the outline of his body was sharp in the soft earth.

During one of those afternoons where only despair and prayer filled his thoughts, he caught the first glimpse of the stoat sitting on its haunches, perched on the bark of the fallen oak. Half-draped in the shadows, the animal was observing him, like a casual bystander with a careful tilt of his head and an almost bored expression.

_Magnificent_ , Thor thought instantly.

The animal was tiny: small enough to make Thor wonder how it had survived infancy. Stoats were cruel creatures and only the strong of the litter usually lived through their first winter. Thor stood up cautiously, expecting the animal to dart away, but he stood his ground, only moving his ears slightly to accommodate the shifting air, swiping the black end of his tail against the rugged wood.

_White,_ Thor realized abruptly, _his fur is like snow._

The pelt of a white stoat caught in the heart of summer, it would make a fine kill and a finer gift for his mother. He could bring the corpse to the tanner; once cleaned the fur would served beautifully as a lining for his mother’s gloves. It looked soft and thick. Surely it would warm his mother’s bloodless fingers.

Thor reached slowly to retrieve the dagger concealed in his boot, wondering how best to approach the animal but his careful movements were enough to alert the stoat. His keen eyes followed the edge of the blade curiously and as Thor thought he would dart away, the stoat slowly toggled back on his front paws and defiantly sauntered towards Thor.

_All purposes are not clear-cut like diamonds,_ the voice of his mother echoes suddenly in his head. _All loyalties are not black or white, fire or ice. In your own time, you must learn to compromise._

Thor can almost feel his mother’s hand in his hair, the warmth of a familiar body close to his own, the comforting sounds of a burning fire. Thor had not understood his mother’s words then. He had been young and his mind was narrow still.

_You know of stoats, my son, do you not?_ She told him gently, still running her fingers through his hair in long, calm strokes. _They run free in our forests, hunting like devils and caring for nothing but their own skin. Stoats are wretched creatures that would leave their own offspring to die if judged too frail or cumbersome. But come winter, the stoats shed their coat and their cruelty. They become as white and pure as snow. Come winter, the stoat names itself ermine and gains honor. The white stoats would sooner die rather than stain their coat. They would turn and face their foes proudly to protect what they deem worthy, ready to offer their life in return._ His mother had paused, suddenly uncertain. _Do you see, my son? Do you understand?_

Watching the proud creature crawl closer and closer to him, Thor still could not understand but he lowered his dagger all the same.

 

*

 

The stoat lurches restlessly, running between his feet and Thor stumbles, catching himself to the saddle of his horse. Thor’s stallion snorts nervously, shifting his powerful legs in an obvious show of distrust but the stoat makes no notice of the thick hooves that could crush his tiny spine against the soft ground and chooses instead to gnaw at Thor’s boots.

“Yes, yes,” Thor huffs, untangling the leather straps, “but a moment.”

He fastens his satchel across his chest, gives a parting pat to his horse and when he turns, he almost misses the flash of black and white as the stoat dives between two bushes.

Thor only sighs, then follows.

The brambles are vicious and when Thor manages to trample one, two more seem to sprout out of the earth like dwarves to impede his passage, determined to scratch his arms until the linen splits and finally the skin breaks. Feeling the sweat gathering on his hairline, Thor loses patience and with a large swipe of his axe, the bushes are vanquished and Thor can squeeze through the narrow opening. The stoat is waiting for him, quietly sitting on his haunches.

_He is laughing at me,_ Thor thinks with slight bitterness. _The mighty Thor, challenged by a thorny bush, forced to draw his weapon against its fearsome branches. How droll._

The look in the animal’s clever eyes tells it all but lasts only a moment before the stoat darts away. Thor hastens his step; he will not let himself be outrun. Instead he stumbles on a path, which opens at his feet, long and narrow, winding through the forest. The small stoat soon disappears behind a curve. Thor feels the blood flood his heart, pulsing thick in his throat.

_The hunt, the unknown, the prey, the indispensable prey,_ his heart sings and he presses forward. His footsteps are almost silent, his impatient ground eating step dampened by the soft layer of fir needles, covering the ground, dyed brown from last winter, refusing to disappear unlike the long rotten leaves of the tall oaks. Pines and larches soon outnumber birches and maples and the forest is stripped of their bright joyful green, leaving it darker and more solemn. The path becomes abrupt and treacherous but Thor’s strides do not slow despite the burning muscles in his thighs. His load grows heavy across his chest and he regrets not favoring a more sustaining breakfast instead of behaving like a paranoid chipmunk.

The path has narrowed down to a thin stripe of earth, tucked against a natural wall of stones. Thor steps carefully. As he advances, the terrain becomes more uneven and soon a threatening slope lies to his right. Thor can see how dire the fall would be were he to lose his footing. Only rocks and trees would stop his descent and his neck would probably snap long before the trunk of a tree could break his fall. The sound of a running stream echoes in his ears and although Thor strains his eyes, he cannot see the torrent that surely lies at the bottom of the slope. Perhaps he would finish his course drowned in icy water, his body carried away to the sea. Thor would prefer such a fate; rather than being picked by greedy crows, his body could return to the sea as is proper. 

The forest is eerily beautiful in these parts, in a dangerous and chaotic way. No forester has ever set foot on this path. No hand has ever tried to clear the vestiges of storms and decay. He must clamber over wayward trees that lay across his way. Some are recently fallen; some have long merged with the earth. All show their massive roots upturned, free and indecent in the crisp air like the spilled guts of an unlucky opponent. He skirts around heavy stones that even Volstagg in all his brutish strength could not lift, and he grows weary of his surroundings, wondering if his luck will fail him. A landslide could suddenly unleash its power and swallow him whole. But for lack of heavy rains or ill intent, the grounds hold fast, the forest remains still and Thor lives.

With each step, he is unwittingly reminded of the destructive power of nature. She would act as benign, benevolent even, presenting her hosts with crops and water, sunshine and a cool breeze, when in reality she only lays dormant, ready to strike like a snake, wielding thunder and hail, draught and parasites like willing infantry. The wall of stones and debris is riddled with burrows, recesses and hidden passages and Thor wonders what creatures nature is hiding in her loins, what minions and fairies watch him lumber through the forest and giddily plot his demise.

Lost in his mind and the contemplation of his surroundings, he does not notice the sudden drop in temperature, the chill creeping in the air, more vicious and dangerous than any fallen rock or imaginary devil. Thor’s muscles are warm; sweat beads steadily on his forehead. His blood pulses hotly in his veins and he does not gain awareness of the change in the wind until his right boot crunches crisply on the ice.

 

*

 

The snow chose her first victim well. It was a beautiful boy, already strong for his nine years and much too reckless for his own good. His hair was golden and still long, braided clumsily by his darling sister, and his smile wide, too bright for girls too young to know better and women too old to resist his charm. Seated next to the crown prince, displayed in fine clothes, he could easily have passed for his kin. But the boy was not the prince’s brother. He was a peasant’s undistinguishable offspring. His hands were raw and often bled as he wielded the fork rather than the sword.

When the first snowflake fell, the boy was making his way home. It landed on his nose, prettily, playfully. The boy watched it melt on the tip of his nose, squinting and marveling at its beauty. More fell, crowning his head, hugging his shoulders. It was like nothing the boy had ever seen in his simple, unremarkable life, and he laughed and called out, thanking the skies for this miracle bestowed upon him, only him.

The boy was a fool.

While he danced and whirled in the falling snow like the child he was, the mist grew thick, the air icy, the storm tempestuous. When the boy thought to resume his way home, it was much too late. That poor boy, he died slowly.

 

*

 

There is no thinking, only instinct, as Thor takes a hasty step back, horror gripping his heart. The imprint of his boot has left an incomprehensible puzzle of fissures and shards that once was a small puddle of murky water.

_Frozen,_ he thinks haltingly. He wants to kneel down on the mud, touch this impossibility with his own fingers.

_Fool, look up._

Thor does. The path continues, tortuous as before, but blindingly white. There are no birches, no oaks, but how could their vibrant colors be missed when all the shades of the forest have been swallowed without discrimination by the ice. Thor shields his eyes, hoping he went blind, but the unyielding sharpness of the forest only hurts more when he forces his lids to open again. He takes a few hesitant steps, wondering at the crunching sound of snow under his feet. 

“What—what witchcraft is this?” Thor whispers, stumbling on simple words. He sinks to his knees, feeling the biting cold seep in his legs. His hands reach for the ground; his fingers collect the thin layer of snow in his palms.

His hands close around more dirt than snow, which melts almost instantly and leaves his hands grimy, the slime incrusting the rough calluses of his palm. His ears buzz angrily and he tastes the rage, the terrible unexplained rage slowly boiling in his gut, overflowing his mind and reason. Suddenly, without doubt, he knows.

_My prey, my lovely prey._

His hands close around the grip of his axe, its weight and girth comforting in his hand. The air is icy but anger fuels his steps. The snow is slippery and grows deep, but nothing could hinder Thor now. He _hunts._

_I have you_.

The forest is forgotten; the trees are forgotten; the unseen stream is forgotten. The snow crunches loudly under his feet, but its novelty is dismissed from Thor’s mind. Snow, sand, or waist-tall grass, Thor would wade through any impediment to reach his purpose. The path grows narrower still until Thor is pressed hotly against the stone, his free hand gripping any roots and plant that might secure him some balance. The mud is squelching coldly against his boots, while the snow slowly creeps to his ankles, caking and stiffing his trousers. Branches whip his face, leaving small scratches on his cheeks, hidden under his beard, tangling and wrenching wisps of his blond hair as stolen tokens.

Thor sees nothing of this. Why would it even matter when he is so near? He sees all the journeys he took deep into the forest’s belly. All those days he spent scourging in the wilderness, looking for something, anything that might relieve the tightness of his muscles.

How many pheasants, all beautiful and dignified, has he killed in vain? How many foxes has he skinned, desperate to quench his thirst? He remembers his mother’s unbidden sob when he presented her with a doe as trophy. He remembers his father’s scowl when he came limping in the courtyard, dragging his half-crazed horse behind him. That mare never carried another body after her last burden, forever skittish and lame. The boar had been hard to kill; Thor’s axe had cut deeply into its throat, and yet the beast had fought stubbornly, more for revenge than for its life. At the end, the boar’s neck had been nearly entirely severed and from the gaping wound, the boar’s blood has soaked the beautiful bay coat of his horse. Thor still swears that the mare never recovered her true coloring.

More than anything, Thor remembers lying restless in his bed. It didn’t matter how many cups he drank, how many tales he sung, how many women he used, night after night, he would gaze into the intricate patterns of the wooden ceiling and contemplate the mingling of frustration, despair, and iron wrath that tore his being apart and never faded.

How could the lives of these tiny animals matter when his heart burned, when his fist and his reason both knew his purpose would soon be achieved?

_You would stop at nothing,_ a voice whispers.

_Yes,_ Thor thinks reverently, _by the gods, yes._

The path turns sharply carving its way in a stony cliff, nearly a tunnel, and the scent of smoke slap him in the face like an angry father. He nearly loses his footing as the path suddenly opens in front of him. It spills into a round clearing that is slowly losing ground to the oppressive forest and the greedy trees that spread their branches and grow.

A cottage stands at the edge of the clearing, imbedded snugly between the pines, rundown and utterly pitiful. Its roof is sunken under the unyielding weight of the snow. Its door stands ajar as an unspoken invitation, letting the cold settle in its corners. In front of it, an hearth shelters a weak fire, burning brightly, cracking loudly as to convince itself of its worth, proclaiming its bravery and its will to survive.

Seated on a tree stump by the fire, a man is watching him.

_A man_ , Thor realizes numbly.

“Ah,” the stranger says with a soft voice and steely eyes, “so soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued--  
> Thanks for reading, tell me what you think!


	2. Winter II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, we're in for a long ride. Here's a companion music for the winter part of my Lords of Summer if you're one of those folks like me who like music to accompany their readings: [Listen](http://8tracks.com/thankgodforpandas/the-lords-of-summer)  
> And it's part of the mix, but if you don't want to listen to the whole thing, I would recommend that you listen to this as the right time comes (you'll know when it's there) : [Listen](http://thankgodforpandas.tumblr.com/post/58377742288)  
> 

 

*

 

The first kill was the hardest for the boy had been beautiful and well loved. Even the cruel snow recognized these favors. Though arrogant in his youth, he would have grown into a fine, honest man. He would have loved his wife well enough and raised his children to be diligent citizens of Asgard. The snow could have turned away, chosen another victim and given a respite to the boy, giving him precious time to come to his senses. Alas, the lure of this first kill was too strong and the snow's greed knew no bound.

After that first death, beautiful and terrible, the snow grew confident and roared, strength like multiplied. It lusted for more deaths, as tender and sweet as that young boy, but the people had retired into their homes as the night fell. There were but a few souls to be ensnared in the open fields but the snow was not to be deterred. It raged and bid its time until slowly, carefully, entire villages were swallowed in her smothering embrace. At first, the inhabitants were peaceful, resting with their families in their wooden houses, knitting and woodcarving in front of the fire as the snowflakes slowly piled up outside their doors, in their streets, in their gardens. They thought themselves safe, ignoring that the snow would turn vicious and determined. Too late did the men realize that the air grew thin, too late did they try to break down the doors of their homes.

The small children and the elders died first followed by strong men and healthy mothers who shared one last kiss before they fell asleep in their homes turned to tombs.

The storm lasted strong throughout the night, receding only with the first rays of the morning sun. When the King stepped out on his terrace to survey the carnage, the snow was covering the entire realm, laughing and shining beautifully.

_What can your armies do against my wrath, Good King?_ The snow called out. _Behold now, your people are slaughtered, their livelihood spoiled. Remember this day, this night as you hid yourself in the warmth of your castle while they died._

The snow twirled and danced, glinting pure and white in the sun.

_Be reasonable, Barren King, and remember to fear me._

 

 

*

 

 

Thor stands rooted.

_No_ , _not rooted,_ he thinks, _by all the gods, this is so much worse._ It feels as if he were uprooted, as if the whole world has abruptly shifted under his feet, as if all that he knew were being swiped away like ashes in the wind.

He should speak or raise his axe in defense but there is snow laying at his feet and the beat of his heart thunders in his ears while the all-consuming hunger of the hunt rushes out of his lungs like life abandons a body, leaving Thor exhausted and weak. This is the moment he pursued unerringly: the final moment where his heart will know peace and all Thor can do is stand unblinking and watch.

He is like nothing Thor has ever seen. All his life he has lived among fellow Asgardians, tall and strong like himself, with blond hair that bleaches in the summer days while their skin grows darker, brown and freckled. They grow thick and strong and the signs of their heritage are like beacons, known throughout the realms: striking, honest faces with straight, bushy eyebrows over blue or hazel eyes. Some are beautiful, some are ugly, but all share these features.

This man, however, there are no words to describe him. His hair is black - so dark Thor suddenly fears if it would absorb the unrelenting rays of the summer sun and make his brain boil and melt under his skull – thick and straight although it winds in a rebellious curl just above his shoulders. It is not parted on his head, but slicked back, revealing a proud and wide forehead. His hair might be less striking if his skin was golden but such pallid skin Thor only ever saw on corpses, longer after all life has fled the body, leaving it grey and decaying.

_This is no corpse_ , Thor thinks as he watches small puffs of air gather in front of the stranger’s open lips. _This is no wraith._

His skin holds nothing of the repulsive squalor of a cooling body. No, it is beautiful. Thor wants to approach the man, hold his face in his hands and tilt it towards the sun. There, he might see if it is smooth and unlined or smeared with tiny imperfections, ridges and half-erased freckles.

Thor’s hand itches. If his thumb were to rest on the swell of the stranger’s lip, if he were to pull it slightly downward to expose the warm recesses of his mouth, would his tongue be any redder? Could the inner flesh of his cheeks be any redder than his lips? They look bloody, and Thor wonders whether the cold has chapped them raw and it is truly blood that taints the supple flesh. But they are curved in an almost unperceivable smile and Thor thinks not.

The man sits still, returning Thor’s bold gaze impassively and Thor is suddenly afraid that he is being judged and found lacking. He becomes aware of the wild tangle of his hair, closer to the standards of a stallion than those of a prince. There is dirt under his fingernails and sweat on his brow. He knows that his clothes must be soiled and wrinkled. Unwittingly his spine grows stiff until he stands straighter. His lungs reach deep and fill themselves to the brim until his leather jerkin pulls tight across his chest.

_Self-consciousness_ , Thor realizes with a pang, ashamed of his uncertainty.

Thor raises his chin slightly and as he grips the handle of his axe tighter, he shifts his stance, legs parting, feet sinking in the snow. His movements are not unnoticed; Thor is sure of it even if the stranger’s eyes do not fall to his weapon or narrow in suspicion. No, the man only smiles a little wider, and in a smooth movement, he stands.

His height unravels like a mystery. He is only slightly smaller than Thor, who loses all hope of intimidation based on height only. Still, the stranger’s build seems slight, far from the brawn of Aesir warriors but Thor cannot be sure for the man is wrapped in many layers of black rough cloth, hemp and wool wound tightly together. But as the man bends to retrieve a small ceramic jug, Thor catches a glance of a slender wrist, escaping from the coarse folds of his coat. His hand is wrapped in stripes of black wool, but his fingers are free and Thor can only admire the fine bones even if the knuckles are red and raw, the fingernails blunt and chipped from work.

“Here,” the man says, offering him the jug, “drink.”

_Who are you?_ Thor wants to ask, _what evil spirits have conjured you in this place?_

The man approaches him in careful steps, circling the fire and Thor is caught by indecision.

_What is this man who settles the hunger in my belly? Is he to be trusted? Perhaps I should slay him to ensure my freedom._

“You must be parched after your journey,” the stranger continues, voice smooth and mundane. He advances slowly, feet barely making a sound where they sink in the snow, before he extends his hand, brandishing the jug like a peace offering.

_Or poison,_ Thor thinks suddenly wary.

He raises his axe. Is this the monster that haunts children’s nightmares? Would the Wintersmith appear in this form? As a lithe man with startling green eyes, slithering towards him with graceful limbs and a sensuous gait? Thor cannot reconcile.

The man stands in front of him, unafraid although his eyes narrow on Thor’s weapon. “Ah,” he sighs, “or are you in a killing mood?”

He looks up and Thor forces himself to meet his gaze. The man wears an almost jovial expression but Thor is not fooled: this is the fallacious smile before a strike, meant only to distract and parade as harmlessness, but the lines on the man’s face betray the illusion of vulnerability. The dark shadows under his eyes are striking, giving relief to his smooth face and standing in sharp contrast with his blemish skin and glinting eyes. His cheeks are gaunt, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut.He looks half-starved as if he were battling against a ruthless wasting sickness that gnaws at his bones and his mind. This is no mystical being, however. There are bluish veins running beneath the thin skin. Thor knows he would be made of flesh and blood, but he suddenly wonders whether the skin would be warm under his fingers.

Oh, Thor wants to know more but should he? His knuckles have long gone white from gripping the handle of his axe. _Strike him down and be finished with it. Assuage your anger._

“Tell me, huntsman,” the man says patiently, interrupting his thoughts. “Would you rather take my hospitality or my life on this day?”

His smile widens and Thor recognizes the challenge easily. _Kill me and the world shall rejoice. Yes, kill me but silence me forever._

Thor snarls as he wrenches the jug from the man’s hands. The water is icy in his throat but Thor gulps it down greedily. A satisfied smile splits the stranger’s face as he follows the path of water down Thor’s neck. It does not soften his features in the least. Rather, it accentuates the sharpness of his cheekbones, the hollowness of his cheeks, the straight line of his nose. It does not make him beautiful or happy, only vindicated.

“Come then,” the man says, turning away, “sit by the fire.”

Thor wipes his mouth, watching the elegant line of the man’s back, offered to him carelessly, and finally finds his voice.

“Who are you?” he asks abruptly, voice too rough and loud, unsuited to the stillness of the place. He asks without thinking. Surely this must be the natural question, but the stranger raises a mocking eyebrow to him as he sits back on his tree stump.

“Who am I?” he snorts. “Who could I be when I live retrenched in the woods? Look at my clothes, look at my home, and define me as you wish.”

He adds a log to the fire as Thor moves forward.

“At least,” Thor hesitates, unsettled by his response, “I would have your name.”

“My name?” the man looks up, chuckling. “Oh, but my name is the last thing you will have from me, huntsman.”

“Come, do not act coy with me,” Thor warns.

“This is not coyness,” he answers, calmly, “but never will you be worthy of my name.”

“How dare you?” Thor bares his teeth. “You will treat me with respect. I am Th—“

“Thor Odinson,” the man snaps, rising to his feet, suddenly crowding Thor.

“You know me?” Thor asks surprised, fighting not to take a step back.

“Of course I know who you are, _prince_.” The venom in his tone sends Thor reeling. Even his foes would treat his name with respect, bowing to his strength and his lineage. But there is nothing but disdain and revulsion on the man’s tongue.

“Then surely—“

“Look around you,” the man cuts, gesturing broadly. “Do you think your title means anything in these parts? Your name and your ancestry are for naught here. Do not presume claiming anything of mine by the force of your name. I owe nothing to you and your king.”

His words echo violently in the clearing and in the space of Thor’s mind. He struggles to make sense of them, to make sense of this unreal man, clad in black, living in the hellish snow.

“Yet you offer me water and rest. Why waste your resources on those you so clearly despise?” Thor counters, fascinated by the color rising to the man’s cheeks, fuelled by anger. He raises a hand to grasp the man’s elbow, desperate for contact. Despite the thick cloth of his cloth, Thor can feel the strength of the man’s arm. _Lean but strong._

“Despise you? I think not,” the man snorts, freeing his arm with a sharp tug before he retrieves his seat by the fire. “I could not simply leave the Golden Prince of Asgard to freeze at my doorstep. But sit now and warm yourself lest I change my mind.”

And Thor does. The fire is a pitiful thing even if it manages the task well enough. Thor’s fingers slowly lose their stiffness while his mind races, barely keeping up with the mad beating of his heart, hidden beneath his ribs.

_Is he some kind of sorcerer? Am I ensnared already?_ Thor reflects, closing his eyes. _Who is he? I must know._

“I—” he begins, searching for the right words, “I would not risk being ungracious. How could I thank you for your kindness when I ignore to whom I am indebted?”

The man lets out a short laugh. “Clever and cleverer words, I congratulate you. Leave it be, prince. I will not trust you with my name, you would take it lightly and use it ill.”

“On my honor,” Thor tries to argue but the man just raises a hand, silencing him.

“Your promises mean nothing here where snow is the only ruler,” he says, voice like the sharpest blade. “Words are gone with the night wind and you would betray your vow with the morning sun.”

Thor can only state the truth. “I do not understand.”

The man laughs sadly, prettily. “Of course you don’t, foolish prince”, he says, averting his eyes. “But do not fret, you would only hurt your head. Accept my hospitality on those terms or be gone.”

_A man facing impossible odds must know when to retreat,_ his father used to tell him when Thor’s foolhardiness led him to yet another misstep. _Leave before you are lost, my son._

He contemplates the man sitting in front of him.He could complain, make his demands, but there is something in the stranger’s eyes, a wild mixture of steel and weariness that makes him hold his tongue. His heart is strangely tied, unsettled.

“But,” the man continues, hesitating, “if your honor requires that you pay back imaginary debts, then make use of your fearsome axe and chop wood for me. This fire is only as weak as my arm.”

Their eyes meet and hold.

_I am sorry, Father,_ Thor thinks. _It is one of those moments you incessantly warned me of, isn’t it?_

He can easily imagine the disappointment on his father’s face, the stern words that would follow, always spoken with growing lassitude.

When Thor was but a boy, his only wish had been to look in the mirror one day and see his father’s image, tall and proud reflected back at him. But here, standing in the snow, Thor realizes that the image has become blurry.

He nods and grabs his axe.

 

 

*

 

 

When Thor returned haggard and sunburnt from the south, he was declared a man grown by law. It was the last rite before a soldier could be called a man and as the custom dictated, his father celebrated his coming-of-age with the usual festivities and merrymaking but also with a mighty present.

Usually, a father would reward his son with a beautiful tool, useful for his craft, or a small patch of earth, where his son could build a farm and raise his children. In noble houses however, the gift was much more precious and the entire city gossiped for months about it, coveting its worth shamelessly. Most of the time, a lord would offer a purebred stallion or an antique heirloom to his heir. Often the gift was worth more than the yearly crops of a striving village and the common folk would try to catch a glimpse of it like angry magpies.

As Thor came of age, the entire realm grew feverish with anticipation. What would the Golden Prince of Asgard receive as gift? _A horse?_ The men whispered. What could be more precious than a horse that would ensure a bountiful life to any humble family? _A jewel?_ The women sniggered. What could be more useless than a heavy jewel that could never be sold in the city market?

In the end, the King offered neither. Instead, he gifted Thor with a bride.

Her name was Járnsaxa and she was beautiful. She hailed from their neighbors to the east, the allied realm of Niflheim. Her lineage was pure and had not an unexpected son been born, she would have been heir to her father’s throne. When Thor met her in his father’s hall, she was wearing white and flowers in her long red hair.

She was perfect, Thor realized instantly. He had no head for romance and she was willing, giving him a sly, wide small when he bowed to kiss her hand. It was enough to persuade him not to fight his father. It seemed convenient: his marriage was already arranged. Gracious and well spoken, she would serve him well as a wife. She would bear his sons proudly and deal well with court life, allowing Thor to be free of useless duties and able to live his life as his father had known it. He courted her with enthusiasm and theirs was a fine understanding. She was smart and a bit wild, entirely fascinating to Thor’s young eyes. Even if there was something strange in the set of her mouth when she looked at him, Thor deemed it only a challenge to discover what it was.

It was her who led him to her bed for the first time and when they were done, she patted his chest twice, muttering a satisfied _you will do_.

They could have loved each other but they did not.  

He took her on one of his hunts, thinking that it would suit her fierce spirit and that she would enjoy the freedom of the woods.

He thought wrong.

It was fall and they woke up at dawn. They dressed together laughing like children, a breath away from falling back into bed. They were still giggling as they stole meat pies in the kitchen and saddled their horses in the lingering darkness. Together, they rode down the narrow path and entered the forest. She was a fine rider and had even brought her bow with her and when she tried her hand at a falcon, her shot was not one of an amateur. They gave pursuit to a deer and she did not wrinkle her nose when he finished off the wounded animal with a precise swipe of his knife. His lady was pragmatic and she understood that it would make a fine catch to warm and feed a family during the winter.

At midday, he brought her to the small clearing and laid her down in the moist moss. She was soft under his body, her curves round and lush against the hard lines of his muscles, her breasts heavy in his hands. She laughed at him when his clumsy fingers got stuck in the laces of her gown.

The stoat attacked without warning while his fingers were still tangled in laces. Thor caught only a flash of white and a gush of red from the corner of his eyes before his lady’s screams disrupted the calm of the woods.

The beast’s tiny but vicious claws left five angry gashes across Járnsaxa’s cheek. When her hand rose to protect her face, the stoat slithered under her fingers to sink his sharp teeth deep into her left eyebrow, missing her blue eye only by a breath. Before the beast could correct his aim, Thor finally managed to free his fingers from their silk bounds and grabbed the tiny creature by the scruff of his neck. But the devil would not let go of his prey so easily and when Thor finally managed to dislodge it from Járnsaxa, his lady’s face was bathed in thick red. When Thor could not quite avert his gaze from the teasing white bone, which peeked from the gaping wound over her eye, her trembling fingers slowly rose to her face. As they encountered the flapping flesh, she let out a broken sob and turned away from him.

_Help her,_ Thor’s righteous conscience whispered but the stoat was still struggling his grip, snarling and hissing. _Kill the wretched animal._

The beast’s neck was vulnerable. Thor could have broken his spine with a snap of his fingers, but when he raised his hand, ready to strangle the animal, the beast did not judge it as a threat but as an opportunity, choosing to sink his teeth in the soft flesh of Thor’s hand.

Thor swore and more by reflex than real design sent the stoat tumbling across the grass. The beast recovered quickly, rolling on his paws in an instant.

_So proud,_ Thor thought as sharp pain burst from his hand. The wound was deep; the fangs had pierced through the meat of his palm.

Járnsaxa’s muffled sobs echoed eerily in the clearing but Thor could only listen to the threatening growls of his tiny friend, gnarled behind bared teeth. His pure white fur was mired with blood, still dripping from his muzzle. The sight of it made Thor oddly sad.

_You would sooner forsake your life than besmirch your pristine coat, little imp,_ Thor thought, ripping a stripe of his linen shirt to wrap it around his wounded hand. _Why forfeit your honor for this woman?_

Thor sighed and turned to help his lady but not before the stoat tilted his snout arrogantly, eyes gleaming with mischief, two chips of ice glinting like dewy moss in the sun.

 

 

*

 

 

It is hard work. The wood is thick and frozen and his fingers have long forgotten the warmth of the fire. They are aching and stiff, enough that his grip on the handle of his axe has grown clumsy and difficult, but he carries on. The movements are dull and repetitive, soothing to his frayed nerves.

_Bend down. Pick up a log, the heaviest, thickest first before your strength runs out. Settle it on the block, carefully, test its balance. Breathe out and split it. Again. The lumps are still too massive for the fire._

His shoulders throb already, unused to this kind of labor. He can manage the impact of the blade on the hard wood. It is not different from the violent meeting of swords. His arms know the vibrations of such blows and they are ignored with ease. But the expansive arc of the axe he must give before it hits the log has him grimacing in pain. Sweat has gathered on his brow but he does not dare stop. He looked up once as he was picking up a log and the man had been watching him calmly, still sitting by the fire, hands folded neatly in his lap. There was easy appreciation in his eyes, Thor recognized it quickly enough and he was pleased beyond reason to be assessed and not found wanting.

_Watch me, feast on me,_ his mind whispered, _do not dismiss me or it would break my heart._

“Not enough,” the man simply commented in a dispassionate tone when Thor grinned at him and he was forced to return to his task.

_Here, split it again, still too big for the fire, it would smother it._  

He works until his right shoulder is protesting in earnest and the mount of logs has grown to a respectful size. He arranges them to his liking in a careful stack under their crude shelter. It is simple but cleverly built and placed close enough to the fire to be practical without risking catching stray sparks. When he can delay no further, he nods and looks up.

The stranger has not moved but his head is now bent, face obscured by a few tendrils of black hair. Almost disappointed, Thor wants to call out and show his work like a child would show off a drawing to his mother but the man’s name falls short on his lips.

“Well then,” Thor calls out instead. “What do you think?”

The man raises his head as Thor gestures to the neatly stacked logs with a flourish.

“It will do,” the man says calmly and he bows his head again, shifting slightly in his seat.

_Do not dismiss me,_ Thor thinks brutally and he slams his axe into the cutting plot.

“Shall I still not know your name?” Thor calls out again.

This time, the man does not even look up. “I will not repeat myself.”

“Ah,” Thor hesitates. “Then shall I give you one?”

The man stays silent, only shifts a small object in his hand as Thor wipes his hands on his trousers nervously, smearing pitch on the fine cloth.

“You offered me hospitality, but I think you meant only to exploit me. Trick me into doing your chores.” The idea strikes then and he takes a few steps towards the fire, almost collapsing next to his host, thrusting his hands near the fire, desperate for warmth.

“Shall I call you Trickster?”

“If you must,” is the only distracted answer he receives.

Thor frowns. The man’s head is still bent and as Thor leans towards him, he sees that the man is in fact cradling a small object in his hand.

_A book,_ Thor realizes, _he is holding a book._

The world shifts in front of Thor’s eyes. The white snow burns suddenly brighter and he feels young again. He can almost smell the dusty air of the library and the soft fragrance of Idunn’s orchards. Children’s scream echo in his ears.

_Enough_ , he thinks, _look at me!_

But the stranger’s eyes keep flying across the words.

_Enough with the reading!_ He wants to yell and laugh. _Come quick, the sun is still shining!_

Without thinking, he wrenches the book from the man’s hands, feeling a page rip in protest.

“What is this?” he hisses, trying to infuse more curiosity than flounce in his tone, and failing.

He watches with fascination the man’s eyes widen in surprise, the first true unaltered emotion filtering on his face.

“Surely your lordship would recognize a book should he inadvertently come across one,” the Trickster says as he tries to reach for it but Thor simply raises his hand and the seeking fingers come short by a breath. They struggle for an instant like children until Thor catches a slender wrist, marveling at the thinness of it, and the man stills. They are close to each other, and Thor cannot help but tug them even closer. 

“Can you even read?” Thor asks, his heart matching the frantic pulse under his fingers. 

“I would not recommend it to you, huntsman”, the Trickster snarls, trying to dislocate his wrist, “you may not find it to your liking. Too many words and too few images, you see.”

Thor stares him for an instant. Who would dare jest like this with him in the palace? Even in the training grounds his friends have grown cautious with their provocations. He should be insulted; instead he throws back his head and laughs.

“You dare insult a prince of Asgard to his face,” he says, releasing the man’s hand. “I salute your boldness.”

He turns the book in his hands, fingers caressing its spine, and recognizes it. It’s a children’s book, one his mother used to read when the day had been long and Thor wished that it were even longer. On those evenings, Frigga, his lovely mother, would come to his chambers and silently retrieve the volume from his bookshelf. She never told stories by heart when she sat at his bedside. Following some unwritten rule, she would choose one of the stories and read it in the candlelight. Usually she settled for the Hammer of the Gods, Thor’s favorite, but sometimes she would ignore his complaints and read The Northern Sea in her soft alto voice. On even more rare occasions, when Thor had been especially naughty or unruly, she would flip to the very end of the book and with a somber voice begin a retelling of the Great Snow. On those nights, the kiss bestowed upon his forehead would always linger a little longer.

The book in his hand is worn, betraying many readings. He ruffles through the pages, recognizing the few illustrations that stand like milestones in Thor’s childhood and suddenly the loss of his youth is like a gaping wound.

“My book, huntsman”, the man requires, extending a hand.

“Your book?” Thor wonders as he finds the illumination of the Hammer of the Gods. The drawing of the forge is exactly as he remembers with fires crackling gold and sapphire blue. “I called you Trickster but perhaps I spoke too fast. This book is no property of a mountain woodcutter. Its paper is thick and the miniatures are rich.“ He closes the book with a snap. “I should have named you a thief”.

The man’s upper lip curls in a wry smile, and to Thor’s surprise, he looks gleeful, almost proud.

“A thief”, he repeats, rolling the word carefully on his tongue. “I was called many things: Silvertongue, Trickster, Ghost and Liesmith. But a thief,“ he laughs briefly, shaking his head. “Thief, no, this is a new contribution. I must thank you.”

“You mock me,“ Thor spits, “and yet, is this not a book made for kings? How did it come to be in your possession?”

“How dull,” the man retorts, eyes flat with disinterest, “enough with your endless questioning.”

His host turns away, adjusting the collar of his coat closer to his neck to rest snugly under his jawline.

_Tread carefully or he will slither through your fingers,_ Thor tells himself. The man might be just like the little stoat, vain and brave, mischievous and reckless, but taut like a bowstring, ready to snap, sharp enough to cut.

Thor shifts awkwardly in his seat; the tree stump is lumpy and freezing, but Thor is not picky.

“I am—sorry”, he says, forcing the hateful word out of his mouth. At that, the man turns his head, green eyes widening just so. “It is just—“, he sighs, searching for the right words. “I know this book. My mother used to read its stories when I was a child.”

The man’s eyes soften and Thor is struck at how exhausted he looks.

_How did he come to dwell here, alone in the wilderness?_

“Did she?” he says gently, a question meant to be left unanswered and Thor takes the soft tone as a warm invitation for more words and memories.

“She would always read the Hammer of the Gods to me”, Thor says, lowering his voice to a softer drone, returning the book back to its owner’s hand.

The Trickster stays silent but folds his hands around it reverently, smoothing the cover with long fingers. Thor thought the man’s hands wrapped in wool to ward off the biting cold, but as they slip out from the folds of his coat, Thor realizes that the cloth is not black wool, merely gauze blackened by soot and use. His instinct makes him reach for the man’s hand, his broad fingers covering it easily.

“It was my favorite”, he adds quickly, trying to stall the moment where the Trickster will withdraw his hand. “The danger and the quest, you see. I was ever so relieved that there were no princess to rescue, nothing to take the warrior’s attention away.” He pauses. “What was your favorite?”

The man is watching Thor as if he is the impossible man, guarded by winter and mystery like an antique treasure. “The Great Snow.”

Thor snorts. “You jest. Who would prefer this wretched story?”

“Do that surprise you, huntsman?” The man shrugs, eyes roaming over the clearing. “Would I not be a proper addition to that story rather than your realm?  Imagine me in the summer fields, standing amidst the golden barley that sways gently in the breeze. How grotesque I would look”.

“Should I name Wintersmith,” Thor says impulsively, ”as the monster of the story?”

_Yes, it suits him,_ he thinks as the words tumble from his mouth, _he is exactly as I imagine that monster to be: tall and beautiful, with terrible eyes._

“Yes,” the man admits, and Thor realizes how cold his eyes have turned, how limp his hand lies in his own, “it is as good a name as any.” 

_Curse my mindless tongue,_ Thor berates himself and falls silent to rein other brash words. The trickster’s hand has warmed between his palm, and Thor raises it carefully to unwrap the frozen and dirty gauze. His mind goes blank as he uncovers the red welts on the man’s palm. They are raw and angry, never left to heal in the cold. Thor turns the hand; on each side, the skin is rubbed raw, scratched and unsightly.

“It is a cruel life living in winter, prince, with no one to serve but myself,” the stranger says softly, answering Thor’s unspoken questions. “Luxury as you have known all your life is not currency here.”

Thor’s hand reaches slowly, finding the man’s cheek. His skin is smooth and cool, there, oddly spared by the winter wind. He feels the warmth of his own blood seep through his palm, warming the skin beneath it and Thor thinks, _ah,_ _this is what I have been missing all my life_.

“You need not live like this,” Thor says. “I could grant you a place in my household and you would know warmth and leisure.”

Thor’s thumb presses on the thin skin under the Trickster’s eye, exploring the dark shadows that mar his face.

_How beautiful he would look were he rested and fed._

A smile splits the man’s face.“How naïve you are, prince.”

“Must it be a joke?” Thor retorts. “Come back with me. I would make you a noble man.”

“A noble man,” the man repeats softly. “And what role would you have me play?”

He lays a hand on Thor’s and his nails dig painfully in Thor’s flesh, a warning if anything else.

“Your fool perhaps?” he wonders. “Or your servant? Yes, that would do well. You could hold me under your leash, a monster to be ridiculed and despised openly.”

Thor is frozen as madness creeps on the man’s face, distorting his features, stretching the skin oddly on his face. The gauntness of his cheeks, the shadows under his eyes, the green of his irises, all is abruptly enhanced, leaving an unsettling lack of coherence in its wake.

“No,” Thor protests weakly. “I would- I would only keep you.”

_Yes,_ Thor thinks. _I would keep you next to me, at my right and at arm’s length, until the warmth of your skin has seeped deep under mine, never to dissipate._  

Thor abruptly remembers Járnsaxa’s soft curls and softer body, her bright and contagious laugh. Her fierce character held on despite the convalescence but even her smile vanished when the mirror finally uncovered the disfiguring scars running across her cheek. Some of the light in her blue eyes quietly seeped away with the bandages that covered the ruined puckered skin of her forehead, the drooping and interrupted line of her eyebrow.

Thor stood next to her as she studied her new reflection in the mirror but she had no words for him, neither glance nor touch. When she was done, she requested an audience with the King. As she left the room, she simply laid a kiss on Thor’s cheek.

_May you find your happiness, prince, before your realm burns,_ she told him before she left Asgard without claiming marriage or compensation for the loss of her beauty and innocence. He never saw her again, his perfect wife-to-be, exiled from his life by a stoat’s vicious bite. 

Thor also remembers Sif as she emerged from her chambers in the morning light.

_I would have made you happy,_ she whispered, hand hovering over his. Thor did not realize these words were meant as farewell, but Sif left him standing in the hallways to seek an audience with Odin as Járnsaxa did many years before her. It was on that day that the Allfather granted her dearest wish, allowing her to train as a man in the royal armies and without delay she enrolled in the troops of the Left Regiment.

He thinks of Sif, with her hay-like hair, and of Járnsaxa, forever disfigured. How pale they now look in his memory, those two women he unwittingly ruined. How fickle the beating of his heart proved itself to be while he let them walk away from him without a complaint although they both held his heart. But now, as he sits on a frozen stump lost in the middle of the forest, he knows he would never allow it of this stranger.

“Like your women?” the Trickster sneers as if he knew Thor’s thoughts.

His fingers rise and bury themselves in Thor’s hair. They are rough and cruel, guiding Thor’s head so that their eyes meet evenly. Under that scrutiny, Thor can feel the warmth creeping in his cheeks, the unmistakable tightening of his body.

_Yes,_ his heart demands, finally satisfied after years of hunting a shadow. _I would._

“I would only have by my side.”

Whatever hopes Thor nurtured vanish as the man turns his head, snarling like a beast, releasing Thor as swiftly as he seized him.

“Enough”, the Trickster whispers.

_No,_ Thor thinks, _you do not dismiss me._ His hand slides from the man’s cheek to grab the back of his neck, desperate to keep the man in this place, under his hands and control. 

“Release me, huntsman,” the man warns. “Go back to your castle and sleep well in your furs. Go back and forget this day.”

“How could I?” Thor protests but the man silences him with a look.

“Enough, Thor,” the man repeats and his name on the man’s tongue is sweeter and more dangerous than anything Thor ever encountered. “This cannot be.”

“Why?” Thor presses, “enough of the half-truths.”

“You fool,” the man sneers, pushing Thor’s arm aside, “ _this cannot be.”_

The Trickster stands abruptly ready to stalk away, only he fails. One knee twists under his weight and he falters. Thor is on his feet in a heartbeat, steadying the man with a hand on his waist.

“Let me -“ Thor tries, but the man wrenches himself out of Thor’s grasp.

“Be gone, huntsman,” the Trickster says in a ragged breath. “The sun is already setting. Go, before you lose your way home.”

“I would abuse your hospitality and stay for the night,” Thor tries to bargain, taking a step towards him.

The man lets a short stringent laugh that rings hollowly in the clearing. “You may not. Be gone, huntsman.”

In a few steps, the man is at the edge of the clearing, nearly lost in the shadows. “Follow me and I will slit your throat,” he says faintly. “Go back to your castle and pray the gods that we never see each other again.”

Thor watches numbly as the forest swallows the man.

_Do not be a fool, Thor, when you have a second chance to be reasonable and leave,_ he thinks. _The man is mad. Leave him to his folly and be on your way. Your bed would be warm tonight; one of the girls would oblige and soothe your tension._

Instead, he remembers the thrill of the hunt, gone with a touch of the man’s hand. He remembers a scrawny waist under his hand and the exhaustion carved deep in the man’s face. He remembers the duck waiting quietly in his satchel.

Thor sighs. _I shall be the king of fools._

*

 

 

There is one summer that stands vividly in Thor’s memories, when still young and hot-blooded, he found himself alone with Sif.

Volstagg had been sent on patrol to the west where talk of a rebellion was growing too loud to ignore. The realm of Vanaheim had always been restless, testing Asgard’s resolve at every turn. The Allfather never ignored the reports when they came from the west, and when they heard militias were forming in hidden valleys, Volstagg was whisked from Asgard and deployed along with the rest of his regiment faster than one can blink.

Hogun and Fandral, for their part, had been sent to the south, where every soldier, highborn or scum, would be sent for one summer to sweat and eat sand. Anyone with a hint of self-preservation silently dreaded to be shipped out to the south although he would never admit it, last of all to himself. Boys always returned haggard with hair nearly bleached white and bushy beards sprouting sand for years afterwards. All were uncharacteristically silent about their southern adventures and would sit quietly nursing their ale for a week or two before they resumed singing wholeheartedly.

Sif would have been with them, had she sported something different between her legs, but the law forbad women to enter training grounds with weapons, only water and linen to soothe the aches that only men could know. She respected the Allfather’s command: her righteousness would allow nothing less. But Thor knew that one day, the insult on her sex would grow too vivid for her to ignore, and she would rebel and be magnificent.

Thus, it came that Sif remained his only companion. The spring flowers were only losing their blooms, withered in the relentless sun, but Thor was already half in love with her.

One did not need training grounds to fight, so they spent their days wrestling in the growing barley fields. They practiced hard, learning complicated footwork and perfecting precise sequences to the brink of exhaustion. To this day, Thor still holds this summer of fighting as the most strenuous training he ever suffered. Even the scorch of the south was a true blessing compared to the torture of his endless state of arousal.

Sif wore her golden hair high on her head, pulled back in a stern ponytail that revealed the delicate shape of her ears and would always let a few locks escape after a violent exchange, which seemed to tease Thor by sticking to her sweaty throat and curling around her collarbone. When she dived to avoid his wooden sword, her tunic would always pull loose and he would glimpse the outline of her breasts. They were shockingly tanned, Thor remembers.

Never in his life was Thor beaten so often. The shame of it still burns but trying to keep his concentration and his body under control was simply too much for his boiling young mind and Sif used every opportunity to leave him sprawled on the ground. Afterwards, she would stand over him, proud, unselfconscious and blocking the sun. How beautiful she was. Those days were a sweet torture, an endless prelude to his desires. Every night, he would lie aching in his bed and wonder if finally tomorrow she would let herself be stretched in the glossy grass. But every day, she deceived him with a pearly laugh and when he tried to catch her, the vixen would only smile and slither through his fingers.

He used to clutch the lock of hair she had given him without a word after the first spar to survive through the nights but he knew to bid his time. They were young still and she was a noble woman. No one would dare to take her from him. He confessed this to her on a warm afternoon while they were lying next to the sluggish river, bathing in the sun like lizards.

“Aye,” she whispered, kissing his cheek while he stroked her glorious hair, his heart content, “I am yours as you are mine.” 

Afterwards, they did not spar as much but chose to spend long afternoon tangled with each other, taking long walks when they grew restless, and if their fingers brushed as they strolled, neither commented on it.

One day, they met Heimdall.

The man was a legend in Asgard. Once, he had been a fearsome warrior, who had earned the right to wage war as the Allfather’s right hand. There he stood as war brought them to Jotunheim and there he stood as the Aesirs returned home victorious. Together, they rode through the city’s gates to be welcomed with jubilation. The people of the city would have greeted the sight many times if Heimdall had not returned lame from Jotunheim. There had been an unfortunate accident after the battle, the soldier reported. As they crossed a stream, a river snake slithered between the hooves of Heimdall’s horse. The poor beast, still skittish from the horrors of the war, reared and twisted, crushing his rider under him.

_I am sorry, my lord,_ the healers said. _Your leg will never straighten._

Heimdall returned from the war, victorious but broken. His days as a warrior came to an abrupt halt and so he took his sweetheart as a wife and bought a small cottage at the edge of the woods to live the rest of his days as a farmer.

“Will you not regain the city, Heimdall?” Thor asked once as the three of them shared ripe blackberries under a tree. “My father would make good use of your counsel and value your experience.”

“No, my prince,” the man answered calmly. “This is my place now.”

Thor wanted to argue but Sif laid a hand on his thigh, to warn him perhaps, more likely to distract him and he did not bring back the matter, respecting the choice of his elder, even if he could not understand it. It would always pain him to watch this once proud warrior chasing his few hens, hobbling and chugging around the courtyard.

Thor and Sif looked forward to these meetings. The righteousness of the man’s spirit and the quiet strength of his pride appealed greatly to Thor, who recognized the value of a man able to remain faithful to his principles even when all glory was lost. Sif’s respect for the man only grew when he did not sneer at the wooden sword resting on her hip, quietly accepting her talent when some many warriors had dismissed her as an unnatural girl.

They met Heimdall’s wife and although her belly was heavy with child, she welcomed them and opened her home without restraint. Soon, they brought honey and mustards to thank them for their hospitality. Heimdall’s family was poor and gifts were the only acceptable kind of charity. They would share breakfast under the massive oak, their laughs echoing loudly and carrying to the edge of the forest, and Sif would always sit close to Thor, snuggled into his side. As he watched Heimdall’s eyes linger on the swollen belly of his wife with pride and affection, he hoped he could feel the same for his own love. He imagined them leading the same life, full of grace and quiet beauty, and with Sif warm against his side, his heart almost felt content, until one morning when they found Heimdall contemplating his ravaged garden with pursed lips.

“Those were ravenous rabbits,” Sif commented, eyeing the upturned earth.

“This is no rabbit’s work”, Heimdall sighed, sinking painfully to his knees, threading his fingers through the dirt. “I have been robbed.”

Thor crouched next to the soldier. The earth was ravaged but not randomly as the passage of animals would reveal. The carrots were all gone, as were the turnips, wrenched out of the ground neatly, systematically. The bean plants were almost completely gone. A few sorry shoots stood bravely amidst the carnage, only proof that the garden ever grew them. It would require a fearsome rabbit indeed, which could rip off four rows of sturdy beans and walk away with his booty strapped on its back. 

“You do not seem surprised”, Thor said, watching the quiet reproach but the lack of excitement on Heimdall’s face. 

He watched the man rise slowly. “No, this poacher has been freely enjoying our labor for a few months already. Usually, he would take but a handful of potatoes. Once, he took a hen. But this—“Heimdall’s voice broke slightly, the first sign of weakness Thor ever witnessed, “my family may starve this winter.”

Thor stood, brushing dust off his knees. _Three mouths to feed, a fourth soon to arrive, yes,_ Thor thought, _Heimdall’s children may not see the next summer._

“You have seen him, then”, Thor asked, mind already made up.

“Only his footsteps,” the man answers darkly, “he comes during the night, you see, as most thieves do. Coward--”

“Here!” Sif called out. She was bent on the ground, fingers brushing against the dirt. “The tracks lead to the forest.”

Thor laid a hand on Heimdall’s shoulder. “We will find this thief, and we will bring him to justice. Under my rule, this kind of mischief will not be tolerated.”

He expected thanks but Heimdall’s hand only seized his arm, grip tight and eyes serious. “No, prince, you would not find him and if your wish is to come to my aid, I would rather make use of your strength. My crops are lost but the summer is still young. Help me plant new seeds and perhaps my sons will not starve.”

Thor hesitated, still too young to grasp the finer duties that came with his title.

_How humiliating,_ he thought _, to plow a field when I could chase an outlaw and pass justice upon him._

He would have refused but Sif made the choice in his stead.

“I will go,” she declared. “We will have food for your children and justice for the kingdom.”

_This is even worse,_ Thor’s mind supplied, _leaving your woman to act in your stead, your ancestors weep._ But he recognized the glint in her eyes, as she stood, beautiful and infinitely strong. _Refuse her and she will despise you like she despises all the other bigoted men,_ his mind cautiously whispered. _Refuse her and lose her._

“Very well,” he simply said, relinquishing his hold on Heimdall’s shoulder and on his pride.

He picked up a grate, feeling the rough wood scratching his palm, and went to Sif to rest a kiss on her forehead.

“You will be careful.”

She laughed to dismiss his worry and while she kissed his lips, his fingers sunk in her golden locks, keeping her with him for a moment longer.

“I shall, my lord,” she whispered against his lips. “You will not lose your lady to a wild goose chase.”

He watched her go until he could no longer see her hips and hair gently swaying, and then plowed the field under Heimdall’s strict directions. He worked for the entire morning and the afternoon, swiftly and hoping no one would see him. When Sif did not come back, he readily accepted Heimdall’s tentative offer for distraction and spent the rest of the day perched like a hawk on the cottage’s roof, strengthening rotting girders and filling the bald spots of the thatch.

The night fell and the wait grew unbearable. Heimdall’s wife tried to stall him with a cup of honeyed tea then more sensibly with a mug of ale but worry gnawed at his guts, so perversely he could not ignore it. When he wrenched Heimdall’s hand off his shoulder, ignoring his calls for safety, ready to stalk away in the forest, Sif returned.

She would not accept his help as she stumbled towards the castle, ignoring his cries of love and worry. He understood only much that that he needn’t have worried about her safety or her despise for useless shows of masculinity, his lady was lost to him the moment he let her step into the woods.

Only the next morning, when she emerged from her chambers, did Thor see the extent of the dark ugly bruise marring Sif’s cheek and how her scalp, covered in scabs and scratches, had been cruelly shorn of her luscious hair.

 

           

*

 

 

There is a rotten apple on the table but Thor does not notice it at first.

The small cottage is messy, dark, and shockingly cold. How anybody could live between those four walls is a mystery. Thor was curious like a child as the duck slowly roasted over the fire and although he conjured more patience than he thought himself capable of, the Trickster sadly did not reappear before Thor’s boredom triumphed. The open door of the cottage was beckoning to him like a sly vixen, and surely their supper would taste better if he could find some salt. Both of them would be grateful for it, he concluded. And so, rehearsing the excuse in his head should he be caught, he entered the Trickster’s home.

The walls are bare and Thor can see the fading light of the evening sun shine weakly through the clumsily assembled panes. A large bed takes most of the space, looking incongruous, almost sinful in these poor surroundings, when the only other pieces of furniture are a narrow rectangular table and a low wooden chair. The bed is covered in many layers of furs and Thor stares for a moment, imagining the body of its owner resting quietly under the sheep pelt, nestled between the pillows.

_Salt,_ Thor thinks before his mind can wander, _where is the salt?_

_How many books can a man read in his life?_ Thor wonders as his gaze sweeps across the room.

They are everywhere: on the table and on the bed, or stacked against the walls. Some rise up in stacks nearly as tall as Thor, covered in a thick layer of dust, others are lying open, as if abandoned quickly in the middle of a sentence, left carelessly by a disinterested reader.

The room is overflowing with books but almost empty of any useful item that could have helped the man survive in the wild. There is no axe or bow, only an unwieldy-looking hammer covered in a thick layer of dust, betraying its uselessness for the woods. There are neither weapons nor traps to provide him some measure of protection or even a chance at catching some game. In a corner Thor finds a bucket of water and small tools, useful in a kitchen but there is simply no food, he realizes with unease, remembering the feel of salient ribs under his hand, of a slender wrist his broad hand too easily surrounded.

_Who is this man who would rather read and starve than fight and survive?_

Thor sighs, looking helplessly around him.

_Who is this man who talks and acts like a king and lives like a beggar?_

The dimness of the room hardly covers the bluntness of the furniture, the decay lingering in the air and the incrusted dirt on the floor.

_And no salt,_ Thor thinks, _bland duck it shall be._

So many books, parchments and bits of tallow candles cover the wooden table that Thor can hardly see the wood anymore. He fingers the parchments lying on the table, all filled with tight, elegant handwriting and runes, meaningless to Thor’s eyes. He frowns, doubt settling in his thoughts. While he ruffles through the papers trying to uncover some meaning to these writings, he finds the rotten apple under a sheet of rough, cheap paper.

It once must have been perfectly round and an enticing shade of yellow, almost gold, but it has been half eaten and its flesh has grown brown and rotten, leaving flies and worms to make a feast of its corpse.

The fruit is lying on a small wooden plate, richly engraved and again Thor is struck at the incongruity of such a refined object in these rundown lodgings. Thor runs a finger against the carvings, fine and delicate. The plate looks almost like the ones that Thor usually uses for his breakfast.

_Did he steal this also?_ Thor wonders. _Along with the book?_

Thor’s hand hovers the apple. He has always hated them, hated their sweet juice on his tongue, the way their flesh would yield under his teeth, how they sometimes were unexpectedly mealy and their stale taste would explode in his mouth like a sour mockery. The sight of it makes bile rise in Thor’s throat, the bitter taste of decay already resting sweetly on his tongue.

The sudden cries of crows wrench him for his daze and he hurries outside, where the last rays of light and the brightness of the fire blind Thor for an instant. The Trickster has returned and Thor hesitates, hand resting on the doorframe.

_Follow me and I will slit you throat._

Thor remembers the man’s threat. He has heeded it, leaving the Trickster to his own mad devices, but he has stayed when the man wanted him gone and has been caught invading his home. Thor wonders what scathing words the man will throw at him but moments pass and Thor is strangely disappointed. The Trickster simply stands by the fire, tall and calm, staring at the roasting duck like it is the most fascinating thing in the world.

“A meal in return of your hospitality,” Thor finally says, approaching his host with careful steps.

Only when he stands next to him, arm brushing faintly against the rough black cloak, does the man raise his eyes to meet Thor’s gaze.

“A duck?” he asks faintly, arm rising and catching Thor’s elbow in a gesture that looks unconscious. “You brought a duck?”

“Well,” Thor answers, uncertain, “aren’t you hungry?”

The man releases him and sits heavily, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“What is it?” Thor asks again. “Is it not to your liking?”

The Trickster simply chuckles and shrugs before he bends down and picks up the loaf of bread that Thor had set next to the fire to warm.

“A knife, huntsman?” he asks softly.

Thor considers the hand for an instant and sighs, bending to retrieves his dagger. In a practiced movement, he flips the blade to present the weapon’s handle first. His host takes it gingerly raising an eyebrow while he examines the runes running up the blade with interest before he cuts the loaf in even slices and holds one out to Thor.

“Is your roast ready or shall you make me wait for it?” the man asks, taking a hearty bite of bread.

Thor remembers the man’s anger but a few hours ago and his stinging threats. He may be a fool but he has learned not to be careless. “May I count on your hospitality for the night, then? Or will you make good use of my dagger and slit my throat?”

He removes the duck carefully from the fire. The skin of the bird is brown and glistening, the scent of it rich and oily. Thor is ravenous; he wrenches a leg, feeling the joint resist then crunch, released from its socket in a resounding sound. The flesh of the duck is burning hot, the juice staining his fingers scalding but Thor ignores the pain and holds out the leg to his host.

“Will you not go home to your father, prince?” the Trickster asks, accepting the leg, eyes cast down.

“I would rather stay,” he replies, watching the man wince as he drops the leg on the slice of bread, sparing his thin and already mauled fingers.

_I must stay,_ Thor thinks, _do not send me away._

There is something almost hopeful in the set of the man’s shoulders, in his tone, and Thor cannot risk it, could not bear to see it disappear.

“Then stay if it is your wish,” the Trickster finally concedes, “but suffer the risks.” 

Thor nods. He wrenches the other leg of the duck with a flourish and sinks in teeth in the tasty meat greedily. It is far too hot and the meat burns his tongue as the juice runs down his beard. It is perfect.

His host also digs quickly into his meal, in silence and with concentration. Although his hunger seems more controlled, Thor can see how desperate his bites are, how soon he swallows and reaches for another morsel. Ignoring his own hunger, Thor wordlessly cuts the rest of the bird, taking only a slice of its breast for himself, leaving the rest for the other man.

_See how thin he is,_ Thor thinks. _He should eat more._

“Now, huntsman,” the Trickster says between two mouthfuls, “entertain me.”

Thor laughs easily. “Is it not the host who should entertain his guest?”

“Even if the host is unwilling and the guest unwanted?” the man snorts. “I think not. Tell me a story.”

But Thor is not so easily defeated.

“What tales could I have to tell to the man who lives in the cursed woods amidst snow, refusing to reveal even his name?” Thor argues, watching the man’s eyes widen. Because of his arrogance or the childish way he protests, Thor cannot tell. “Indulge me, so I might have a chance of seeing through your shadows.”

“I could tell you many stories, prince,” the Trickster sighs,” but would you listen?” He wipes his greasy fingers absently against the black cloth of his coat, hesitating. “Shall we play a game then? Tell me one of your stories first and if it pleases me, I will grant you one of my own.”

“Agreed,” Thor says, already searching his memory for a suitable tale. He thinks of his comrades, his fellow soldiers. Their stories are always full of laughter, of girls and endless mugs of ale. Thor enjoys them, their easy humor and raucous endings but he doubts the man sitting next to him would appreciate them as heartily as the soldiers of Asgard.

Uncertain, he begins. “I went to war only once—“

“No,” the man interrupts immediately in a soft voice, closing his eyes briefly, “choose another.”

Thor blinks. What is he if he cannot speak of war, if he cannot boast his skills and the strength of his arm? He is still for a long time, scouring his mind, wondering what kind of tale could satisfy the Trickster.

Although he stays silent, the man does not complain, only advances through his meal with precise bites. Thor imitates him but his hunger has abated, distracted by his thoughts. He recalls the adventures of his youth, the endless troubles he encountered as a boy but finds them all lacking. Perhaps he should talk about brave Sif and beautiful Járnsaxa, the only women who ever held his heart and are now lost to him.

_Suffer the risks,_ the man’s voice echoes in his ears. He sees his dagger resting against the carcass of the duck, remembers threats and the flash of sharp white teeth, and he dismisses the notion. Tales of romance or chivalry will not sway this man, he realizes. And more than anything, Thor wants him to listen, to drink his words, to watch him and be amazed.

The Trickster remains quiet next to Thor, unbothered by the prince’s prolonged silence. He has finished the duck and erected a small pile with the polished bones like children often do. His face is withdrawn and Thor can easily imagine the mad swirling of thoughts in his head like the dancing reflections flames on his face.

_How sad he looks,_ he reflects helplessly, _how cold. I would take care of you. Feed you and nurse you back to health._

His heart lurches with the familiar rhythm of longing and suddenly he knows which tale he should tell.

“You call me huntsman,” Thor finally says, “but I am a soldier first and foremost.” He pauses, waiting for the dismissal of his memories, but the man next to him stays silent, leaving Thor to pursue. “Since I was a child, they named me prince but all I ever wanted was to fight. I was an uncomplicated boy, wishing only for blood and battle.”

He takes a breath, stretches his arm to add a log to the fire then retrieves the jug of wine, taking a large swig before handing the bottle to his host.

“Asgard is made for boys like me,” Thor says almost wistfully, “boys who dream of war and count the days until they can carry a sword or a spear, and fight for my father’s armies.”

Thor watches as the man’s upper lip curls slightly and he has to fight back a smile. “I was not yet a man when I started my training, spending every day in the sawdust, building up my strength, showing off my skills. I was already strong, stronger than most. The Golden Prince, they started to call me.”

“Do you expect me to swoon?” the man snaps, rising to his feet. “I have no interest for your prowess.”

He means to dart away but Thor catches his hand. “Wait, this is only the beginning of my story.”

The man stills, mouth caught in a sneer.

“Please,” Thor adds, surprising them both. “I was a great soldier, and yet never a true warrior for a man in Asgard cannot be called a warrior if he does not possess a weapon. That is the way.”

The Trickster whirls, and Thor knows that he has caught the man’s interest even if his words rest like shards of glass on his own tongue.  

“I searched for years, convinced I would find the one weapon that would thrill under my hand and make me undefeatable. I was the Prince of Asgard. How could it be any different?” Thor continues forcefully, watching the man sit again, eyes narrowed. “I was rejected at every turn and I grew desperate, wondering if I would ever be called a warrior until my father offered Thurmuth.”

Thor still remembers the burn of it, the inescapable shame of his empty hand and the even more bitter shame of Thurmuth’s silence beneath his palm.

“Such relief I felt. I thought my life would finally fall into place as it should always have been.” He pauses. “I was such a fool.”

The trickster arranges his cloaks around him, fitting them closer against his neck, and his face is carefully composed, mouth set in a thin line.

_Of course,_ Thor huffs. _He would care naught for my prowess but be captivated by my failings._

“Not long after I received her, my father sent me to the south,” Thor continues, finding he does not have the courage to mention the long days wasted in the woods. The memories of the south are painful enough, leaving him with dread and a vague sense of reality.

“It is a bastard tradition of the Aesir armies,” Thor explains. “All new recruits are sent to the south to mark the beginning of their duty. It is supposed to forge their souls.”

“I have heard of it,” the man admits, handing him back the jug of wine. “The south breaks young soldiers like a grizzled horsemaster breaks a young filly. It is the saying, is it not?”

Thor nods, surprised that this nowhere man would know their customs. “For six moons, we stayed in the deserts. We were a dozen boys, left alone at the border, together only because of chance.”

Thor can still taste it, the scorching sun, the dry air and the dryer ground. Sometimes he wakes during the night, trying to chase sand and grit from his eyes, clutching the sheets tighter around his body. 

“The south—“ Thor hesitates, “it is a gruesome place. The days are hotter than our worst draughts, hotter even than this fire.” He says, holding a hand towards the hearth to feel the warmth of it. “The nights, however, are as cold as your snow, unrelenting, unforgiving. The body grows weak, stretched between those extremes. The wind always blows, day or night, swiping sand in your hair, whistling in your ears. Sleep becomes scarce, food unsatisfying. Water vanishes on your tongue before you can even taste it.”

Thor pauses, takes another swig of wine, lost in his thoughts. “All the boys in the south are assigned to guard duty. There is a small watchtower, lost amidst the sand. It stands there, alone, only a milestone to show where Asgard begins. But there are no foes in the south, only sand and cruel winds. You sit idle to be tortured by the cold and tormented by the sun. When a month had passed, we all thought we would lose our minds to madness, to solitude and boredom.”

“Did you?” the Trickster asks in a soft voice.

Thor shrugs. “One night when it seemed the cold would shatter our bones, a boy started to sing. A children’s lullaby, he chose, one that we all knew.”

Vividly, Thor still remembers how the boy’s voice had slowly risen fighting to overcome the wind, and how, one by one, each man had joined his voice to the boy’s shivering baritone.

He hesitates, feeling a little foolish, but then the Trickster has not stopped him yet and this gives him courage.

“Perhaps even you know it,” Thor says and he takes a deep breath to settle in the familiar tune and the rough syllables of the old tongue. “Sleep now softly little love, outside rain is falling. Mother guards your treasure trove, hoard of bones and chest of stones.”

These memories are impossibly clear in his mind, like a wound that can never heal. After that first night, their small mismatched group always sat huddled together for warmth, singing until their throats were hoarse and their voices almost bloody. They sang the hymns, they taught each other new songs, foreign songs, ribald songs, but always, they came back to that first lullaby, humming the deep harmonies between them with growing confidence.

“We shall not stay awake through nights of darkness. Many secrets it keeps in my dark and heavy mind,” Thor continues despite the Trickster’s shuddering breath. “Often I have seen black sand scorch the grass of meadows green while deep in the ice the fissures groan in darkness.”

“Don’t,” the Trickster complains in a breath. His hand hovers over Thor’s face as if it were hesitating to silence him and Thor catches it quickly before it can succeed.

“Sleep now softly, sleep so long,” Thor sings on, ignoring the Trickster’s soft reproach. Instead, he brings the man’s hand to his lips, leaving the words to slide over his chafed knuckles. “Late is best to waken. While each day quickly goes, troubles soon will teach you that men will love, lose, cry, and mourn.”

For a moment there is silence but the Trickster soon shatters it with a cruel laugh. It rings loud and desperate, reminding Thor of his mother, the gracious queen, whose smile would always be tainted by heartbreak. Thor only wants to smother it: lay a heavy on the man’s mouth and muzzle his chuckles.

“Well done, huntsman. You have chosen your story well,” he chokes, his words stumbling between two laughs. “How cruel you are to impose this wretched song on me.”

“But the story is not finished,” Thor says before his hands sink in dark hair and he grabs the man’s neck, freezing the man’s laughter in an open smile.

“I want no more of it,” the man demands but Thor only shakes his head, his thumb stroking the cold skin. He imagines he can feel the tension fade in the man’s muscles, the skin warm under his finger.

“Every night we sang until our voices broke and derailed, until many tears were shed in shame,” Thor says, forcing the Trickster to listen. “I watched my comrades weep as they begged to return to the side of their loved ones, clutching their weapon against their breast for comfort, and I--“ he hesitates. He has never told this story. Not to his mother whose sadness surely would have understood his tale. Not to his dearest friends who stood by his side in times of joy and hardships. Not to his women who cradled his spent body close to their bosom in the dark hours of the night. “I could not. It was as if each verse of this child’s song would strip away a piece of my soul, leaving it bare and exposed. Night after night, word after word, each harmony would reveal how lacking I was, how shallow, as if my soul was incomplete, as if a piece of my being had been stolen from me.”

He falls silent, waiting for a snort or a rebuttal of his fancies but the man only closes his eyes, eyebrows twisting.

_Should I stop?_ Thor wonders, but he has already gone so far, too far.

“Each night I spent in the desert left me unsatisfied, desperate to fill this void. When I returned from the south, I sought my pleasures. Good company and better fights, long nights full of laughs and women, but none of it would settle the hunger in my belly.” His hold on the man’s neck tightens and with a whimper, the Trickster lets his head fall on Thor’s shoulder, leaving Thor to bury his face in his dark hair, heady with smoke and ice.

“I grew reckless to hide my despair, arrogant to conceal my uncertainties. I feared that always I would have to contend with my imperfection. Only in these woods-” Thor mutters against dark hair, struggling with the words, trying to convey meanings he is not himself sure he fully understands. “Only in these woods I could find a sliver of peace. But-- But, deer, foxes, pheasants, no matter how many animals I slaughtered, my hunger would not be satisfied. I grew angry. I longed for more.” He wrenches the man’s head away and forces their eyes to meet.

“But today,” Thor says hotly, “today, I stand before you and the hunger has vanished as if this missing piece has finally been returned to me. So tell me,” Thor demands. “Now tell me. Who are you?”

_An answer, anything,_ he chants, wanting to break him, hurt him, and tear him apart, _I beg of you._

But instead of words the man’s face splits in a helpless smile and Thor knows he has lost the game.

 “You should have gone home, huntsman,” the Trickster finally says. “Those are but shadows you are chasing. I have no answers for you.”

“Lies!” he growls. His hold on the man’s neck must be painful but the stranger only smiles wider while his eyes lose what little warmth they ever held. “You _lie_ to me.”

_Look at me,_ Thor wants to scream as the man shrugs, eyes shifting away, _look at me and tell me the truth._

He should yell, demand answers. His anger is asking for blood and violence, anything to break this man, whose smile betrays Thor’s weakening hold on him.

_No,_ Thor thinks and he kisses him.

 

 

*

 

 

The Good King fell to his knees as he surveyed the ruined landscapes of his realm, smothered by the cruel snow. Under the merciless morning light he watched the frozen crops in the fields and the barren branches of the trees while his good heart grew heavy in contemplation of the silent homes where entire families would never awaken.

The Good King wept as the snow danced with the wind. It only laughed while the people of the realm counted their dead and searched shivering and wailing for their scattered livestock. It watched giddily as the men broke their shovels and their hands on the hard ground and could not bury their silent wives and unmoving children.

In one night, the cruel snow had brought the realm of warriors to its knees. The strength of their arms and the sharpness of their blades could do nothing against the fury of an advancing winter.  

_Gracious King,_ the people of the realm whispered in their cold homes, breathing moist air against their frostbitten fingers, _oh Beloved King, will you leave us to die here as lifeless roots in the ground? Will you do nothing to free us from this curse?_

And they despaired for their King only wept.

 

 

*

 

 

The Trickster does not allow it. He shoves Thor away, claw-like fingers coming up his shoulders, but Thor is strong, much stronger than him and his hands are like iron shackles against the man’s arms.

_Be still,_ Thor wants to whisper against his lips. _There is no need for us to fight. Be still, I have you now._

Only when Thor means to deepen the kiss, does the man bite him viciously, like a snake, sinking sharp teeth in Thor’s lower lip. Perhaps the Trickster expects him to loose hold, but Thor only growls, shifting a hand to grab the man’s throat, encircling the thin neck easily with his fingers until he feels each ridge of the man’s fine bones under the pads of his fingers and a thunderous pulse under his palm.

“You bastard,” the Trickster wheezes. There is no fear on his face despite Thor’s hand tight around his throat, only rage and despair.

_Like the little stoat,_ Thor thinks as his thumb rises to his lip, coming away wet with spit and blood, _proud, defiant, and half-mad._

“You giant _oaf_ ,” the man stresses, hands coming up to grasp Thor’s hand, scrambling for purchase against his leather sleeve, “this cannot be.”

“Why?” Thor snaps. Pain and anger mingle tightly and rise unbidden to the front of his thoughts, blinding him and letting words tumble carelessly. “Come now, you would enjoy it.”

The growl that escapes the man is guttural, almost animal, as he grabs a handful of Thor’s hair and yanks. Thor’s head snaps back painfully and he grunts, surprised that this man would answer his attack with violence of his own, shifting closer to Thor, when all would be struggling to escape his hold and scramble for their lives.

_How warm he is under my hands,_ Thor realizes with a painful lurch of his heart. He can see each nuance in the green of the man’s eyes and enjoy each shade of the flush rising to his cheeks. _How warm and alive. I would keep you so, hidden under tons of furs. You could rest in the crook of my arm, close to my body. There you would be warm and we could lie still for as long as we breathe._  

“You dare,” the man hisses between clenched teeth, “if you think you can take me like one of your women, I will—“

“Slit my throat again, Trickster?” Thor bites back. “You are full of words but they are like the wind, empty and easily forgotten.”

It is as if a string snaps, as if the man’s anger was holding by a tenuous and discrete thread, which Thor carelessly trampled with his words. He feels the tense lines of the man’s body still under his fingers, losing the momentum that made him so alive. The grip on Thor’s hair slackens until his hand falls on Thor’s shoulder before it slides along his chest like a dead limb.

“Oh yes, words,” the Trickster says smiling. “Words are all I have, huntsman.”

Thor pushes him away abruptly, shaken by his easy smile. He expects the man to stalk away like he did earlier in the afternoon, retreating to lick his wounds, but instead his host stumbles after a few steps and stops abruptly, figured outlined blurrily against the shadows.

_Don’t be mad, I’m sorry,_ Thor wants to say, but he only settles back shakily on the tree stumpas if he had not eaten nor slept for days, as if he has marched and fought for more. _I cannot bear it. This madness must be stopped._

 “You have told your story,” the Trickster says at last, and with his back to Thor, it looks as if he were addressing the forest. “You told it well. Now let me fulfill my end of our little game and entertain you.”

He turns his head slightly and his face is cold but beautiful in the flames of the fire. “And you will listen, Thor, by the gods, swear that you will _listen_.”

The man takes a few breaths, the only proof of it lingering as white mist in front of his open mouth and comes towards Thor. “Do you swear?”

There are words and solemn oaths resting on Thor’s swollen tongue but he finds he cannot organize them while his mind drowns in fear and blind hopefulness. He only nods.

“Once there was a storm,” the Trickster begins in a monotonous tone, regaining his seat calmly, gracefully, as if he were claiming a golden throne rather than a wooden log. “It came during the night as most storms do. Born out of just a few clouds and even fewer warnings, it crept into the Golden Realm, rampant and perfidious like a snake, hissing softly in the dark--” He breaks off, waving a dismissive hand in the darkness. “You recognize it, do you not?”

Thor nods. “The Great Snow.”

“Yes,” the man says impatiently. “The Great Snow. What do you know of it?”

“Know of it?” Thor repeats, uncertain. “Only that mothers tell that story to their children to scare them and keep them close during the winter.”

The man raises an eyebrow as if to ask _is that all_? and Thor huffs. That story, he never liked. He would always sulk when his mother chose to forgo his wishes and make a grim retelling of the Great Snow. In her soft voice, the story would lose some of its harshness and cruelty and gain a hint of seriousness. He was very young then. His memories have become blurry, almost vaporous, and he cannot quite recall when last he heard the tale.

“It is but a fairytale”, Thor repeats stubbornly.

“Yes, a fairytale,” the man agrees but his voice is full of mirth and sarcasm. “But where do fairytales come from?”

Thor bristles at the man’s educated tone. “Enlighten me.”

“They come from the truth, prince. Legends and myths all stem from the same fount: truth.”

When Thor only stares, the Trickster allows himself a sharp laugh.

“Of course, you do not believe me, huntsman.” He laughs, adding a log to the fire. “There are many ways to tell a truth, to embellish it for the sake of glory or to twist its words to suit your own purposes. Do you honestly believe that all truths are clear-cut like diamonds, pure and bright in the sun?”

_Clear-cut like diamonds,_ Thor remembers abruptly. His mother had used the same words.

_All purposes are not clear-cut like diamonds,_ she used to say when she spoke of the little stoats that would sacrifice their lives just to preserve the pure white of their coats.. _All loyalties are not black or white, fire or ice. In your own time, you must learn to compromise._

_I still do not understand, mother,_ Thor thinks, hating that the Trickster’s words ring as familiar and as hollow as his mother’s words.

“Which truth do you speak of?” he asks bleakly.

“This storm, it is no child’s fantasy: it happened many years ago. Children are too young to remember it but their parents and their grandparents do not forget. They forged this story to pass on their knowledge and warn their children against storms and death. The years passed and the words have changed, but the truth remains: beware of the snow.”

Thor considers this. “You mean— That storm— “

“When you were a child, yes,” the Trickster says patiently. “It killed many people. Worse, it nearly destroyed the entire harvest. There was a terrible famine, even your father grew hungry in the depth of winter.”

“My father?”

“He is the King, is he not?” the man retorts haughtily, folding his arms around him as if to chase off the cold, even more bitter and cruel now that the night has fallen.  

Thor stays silent for a moment, thinking. “My father lost his eye as he defeated the Jotun King, long before I was born,” he finally mutters.

“It would make a poor tale to tell your children if you droned about snow and death. They needed a figure of hope and goodness to save their miserable existence. The truth disappointed so they forged a new ending to their story, one that everybody could cherish,” the Trickster shrugs. “I would tell you the truth behind that story, huntsman, if you would have it.”

“I will listen”, Thor says simply but the man winces shaking his head like a mother who would indulge her child’s antics with affection and mild irritation.

“There was a terrible storm many years ago,” the man begins and abruptly falls silent. He hesitates, unfolding his arms from the depths of his coat and resting his elbows on his knees, leaning towards the fire. Thor is struck by this hesitation, the man seemed so confident in all things, as if he had been playing a well-known game, following tacit rules that Thor could not understand.

  _Ah,_ he congratulates himself, _have I made some unforeseen progress, scored some unknown points to make him search for his words and lose track of his thoughts?_  

“It—“ the man tries and fails again, eyebrows crunched in frustration. “The storm was violent, killing many people and nearly ruining your realm. Under its fury the people, poor or rich, simple or educated, all cowered in fear. It was a perfidious storm and although the Aesir armies had been undefeated for centuries, they grew cowardly facing this foe without weapons or flesh. Yes, it was the swiftest and most terrible attack.”

“The attack?” Thor repeats blindly.

“Oh yes,” the Trickster says with a smile, regaining a sliver of his easy confidence. “It was an attack, a clever and grandiose attack forged by the Jotun King to bring Asgard to its knees.”

Thor can only stare. “You jest.”

“You asked for the truth and I will give to you, prince,” the Trickster laughs. “You called me Wintersmith but the real master of the snows is Laufey, the King of Jotunheim, and many years ago, as he despaired to never vanquish his sworn enemy, Odin, the bane of his existence, he summoned all his strength, bundled all of his knowledge and magic in one single strike and unleashed the fearsome snow to swallow the Allfather’s kingdom whole.”

“Either you lie or you are taking me for a fool,” Thor snaps hotly. “Nobody can wield such power.”

The Trickster turns to watch Thor curiously. “You seem convinced, huntsman. Why?”

“There are boundaries that cannot be crossed,” Thor insists, suddenly wishing for the grounding grip of Thurmuth’s handle under his hand. “Nature may not be swayed, death may not be bargained.”

“How righteous you are, prince,” the Trickster almost sighs. “But how beautiful and painfully naïve. Magic may achieve anything if you are willing to bear the price.”

Thor is too late to repress a shudder at the man’s icy tone. “Magic is for weaklings and conjurers of petty tricks,” he says. “It is not—“

“Do you not remember your first march, prince?” the Wintersmith interrupts without pity. “Where the only armies you met were made of smoke and shadows, and your weapons found only air where flesh and bones should have been splintered?” There’s a pause, and the Trickster grabs Thor’s chin in an iron grip. Thor’s father used to do the same when he was distracted and there was an important lesson to be learned. The unexpected parallel between the familiar touch of his father and the searing imprint of the Trickster’s fingers leaves Thor reeling, unhinged.

“Do not act the fool, do not pretend to be ignorant,” he warns. “You know the power of seiðr. You have been its witness and suffered helplessly under its hegemony.”

“How—“, Thor swallows. “How do you know that?”

The man smiles and his touch turns gentle against Thor’s jaw before he releases him. “I know everything about you, Thor.”

The blood roars suddenly in Thor’s ears, drowning his thoughts. 

“The attack failed,” the Trickster continues depriving Thor of precious time where he could have gathered his wits. “Odin was taken by surprise and many people perished because of his lack of foresight. But in the end, the Allfather remained strong and he dug deep in his soul to unearth his own seiðr and repel the snow’s onslaught.”

“His seiðr,” Thor repeats dumbly. “Are you mad? Aesirs have no such powers, only the strength of their arm and the reach of their swords. Do not insult my King with your petty insinuation. I have called you Wintersmith when I should name you Liesmith.”

“All men have magic, huntsman,” the man only says haughtily, refusing to take offense. “Jotuns wield their skills openly to wage wars while Aesirs hide their own deep within their souls. Jotun are masters of manipulation and disguise. They shift matter and reality to suit their whims and wishes, but Aesirs,” the man pauses, taking a difficult breath, “your people wield the strength of their heart. It might be less flagrant but it is no less powerful and much more frightening: strength born out of will, duty born out of brotherhood, courage born out of loyalty.” Again, he pauses to clear his throat. “Sacrifice born out of love. These are your skills, your seiðr, Asgardian, and without it never would you have been victorious in battle.”

Thor watches as the man bends and retrieves the jug of wine. He takes a long swallow and Thor wishes the wine could swirl on the man’s tongue, washing his words away.

“And is it magic too? How you play with words, Liesmith?” Thor asks.

The Trickster lowers the jug and of course there is a small smile playing on his lips. “This you know already, huntsman,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I am no Asgardian. Only the reach of my arm is weaker than my heart. Words are all I have.”

Thor wants to protest but the man only dismisses him with a wave of his hand like one would chase an annoying fly. “But come, do not dwell on my flaws and let me tell you how the Allfather led his people to their doom.”

“Are you losing track of your lies?” Thor sneers. “My father fended off the offensive, did he not?”

“Oh yes,” the man agrees with a small smile. “In the end, the storm was much too weak to destroy the good people of Asgard. But you see, prince, your father was a fool for he thought Laufey meant to bury his realm in the throes of winter. When the snow failed and Asgardians lived, Odin rejoiced, thinking his victory unshakable. But—“ the man laughs brusquely, “but the storm was only a diversion, a gratuitous display of brute strength to frighten the Allfather and make his senile mind blind to all other threats.”

“Careful, Liesmith,” Thor growls. “My father is a good man and a great king.“

“Perhaps,” the man retorts, “but he was played for a fool by the Jotun King that you call weak and cowardly, and your dear father is paying dearly for his foolishness.”

“You dishonor the name of my house”, Thor snaps, standing up. “Explain yourself or I will ask for reparation.”

The man looks up at him, unbothered. “Peace, Golden Prince, I mean no disrespect. I only wish to speak the truth.”

“Speak quickly,” Thor growls. “I tire of your detours.”

The Trickster learns forward suddenly. “Odin did not see the snow was designed but for one soul: the queen.”

“You are mad”, Thor can only say and for the first time thinks that perhaps he should have heeded the Trickster’s words and gone home. The man must be mad, but the Trickster ignores him, too caught up in his own story to register the disbelief on Thor’s face.

“The snow fell on Asgard for a whole night and each snowflake was woven thickly with a spell meant only for the queen. That it killed people, destroyed the crops, well, it was just a distraction. Laufey only wanted the snow to melt, sink deep within the ground and poison the water.”

“Poison? What are—“

“You see,” the Trickster interrupts, ignoring him entirely, “the queen was pregnant at that time and Laufey had designs on her unborn son. The snow fell then melted under the sun, permeating the ground. Life went on and the prince in the queen’s belly grew. But with each cup she brought to her lips, the water turned to poison and slowly built the spell within her womb.”

There’s madness on the Trickster’s face and he suddenly stands up to pace restlessly. “You know of Laufey’s sons, do you not?” he asks.

“I—yes,” Thor stutters, still reeling from the Wintersmith’s mad story, “Býleistr and Helblindi, I met their shadows on the battlefield.“

“Yes, warriors, both of them, strong and fearless but—“ the man falters, “but there was a third son, newborn, small and pathetic. Laufey had no love for him and why should he? The boy was but a runt, a disgrace. He should have been left to die on the ice but Laufey found that even such a wretched creature could be of use.”

There is an edge in the man’s voice between danger and violence, despair and misery and Thor stands, unable to bear the distance that the man has put between them. He reaches the man’s side and for an instant, they stand tall together.

The Trickster grabs his arm. “When your mother gave birth to the new heir to the throne of Asgard, Laufey’s spell was perfected and the Aesir boy was replaced by the third son, to be raised as Odin’s own, destined to rule and prosper.”

Thor’s mind goes blank.

“Until one day, when the boy becomes a man grown, he will reveal its true nature and shall present Asgard’s throne to his northern father, destroying Odin’s line and tearing the entire realm of Asgard asunder,” the Trickster says in one breath as if he could not get rid of the words quickly enough. “This, huntsman, this is what has been wrought in one night.”

“What are you implying, Liesmith?” Thor snaps, seizing the man’s by the shoulders. “That I, Thor Odinson, am a bastard? That I am not my father’s son and true heir? That I am the offspring of that monster?”

The Trickster only stares at him for a breath, then lets a sharp laugh escape his mouth. “Perhaps you are,” he laughs. “After all, did you not just confess all your doubts and imperfections?”

Thor growls. “Enough! What is your purpose? Are you here to torment me or be my ally?”

“But I have already told you, prince,” the Trickster retorts calmly. “I am nothing, define me as you wish.”

“I would have you as you are,” Thor presses hotly, “with neither lies nor pretense.”

The laugh turns bitter on the man’s tongue. “I have already given you the truth, Thor.”

“Lies!” Thor cries. “Your words are but a web of lies!”

“Lies, lies,” the man snaps in irritation. “Is this your only conclusion to my story? Is your mind that feeble and narrow?”

That cursed smile, full of hate and despair, is resting comfortably on the Trickster’s face like a well-worn shield and Thor finally gives in his impulses. Thor shakes him.  

“Damn you!” Thor hisses, wanting to slap that smile away. “Curse your tongue and curse your lies! I am the son of Odin—“

“Of course, you are”, the man snarls back, arms coming up to Thor’s shoulders, sinking in Thor’s arms as if he was reveling in the violence. “Look at you. How can anyone doubt that you are the Prince of Asgard? Look at how tall and beautiful you stand. You are the splitting image of your father, are you not? As righteous, and beloved, and so painfully _foolish!_ ”

“Enough with your insults!” Thor hisses, shaken by the man’s words. “I would have the truth from you.”

“Then your desire is never to be fulfilled,” the man says, breathing against Thor’s lips. “There is nothing I can offer you, huntsman. You have heard my tale and rebelled against it. Leave it be, leave me in peace, forget this face and seek your answers with your peers. You are the crown prince of Asgard, loved by all and envied by even more. Here lies your truth, go home and be content with it.”

“How can I?” Thor insists. “How can I leave to regain the bitter comforts of my home when I know you rot in this place? How can I leave you behind?”

“Calm yourself, this is but a dream,” the Trickster says, eyes dimming. “Go back to those who miss you, there will be ale to drink, women to pleasure. Come now, it will pass.”

“I cannot accept it,” Thor clenches his jaw, mind already made up. “If you send me away, I will hunt you. This, I vow, I will hunt you and you will know no respite until you finally give me the truth.”

“You—“ the man falters, raising shaky fingers to Thor’s cheek, “you utter fool. You would ruin us both. You must give up this childish dream. Go home.”

“No,” Thor roars, ears ringing. “I refuse.”

The man’s fingers stroke the planes of his face carefully, as if he means to remember the features of Thor’s face by touch only. They sink in his hair, gripping his neck painfully. Thor wills his eyes to hold the man’s gaze directly, without doubt or fear. He knows his heart and the words he has spoken are not to be forgotten in the morning or dismissed easily.

_I will not relent,_ Thor swears to himself, and something shifts in the man’s eyes.

“You would curse us both?” the Trickster asks, searching Thor’s eyes for an answer.

The Prince considers the warmth of the Trickster’s hand on his face, the quiet thrum of his heart and he finds he needs only speak the truth.

“Does this feel like a curse?”

The Trickster almost smiles, exhaling slowly. 

“Then so be it,” he simply says before he crushes their mouths in a bruising kiss.

He is ruthless against Thor’s lips, clawing at his neck like a beast. For a moment, Thor allows it until he growls and returns the embrace. His arms move to grip the man’s waist, diving under the heavy cloth of the black coat, finding the sharp curve of his hipbone. As Thor brings their hips abruptly together, the Trickster breaks the kiss and lets a dark laugh escape his wet lips.

“Come then,” he says and Thor lets himself be led to the man’s cottage and to his bed.

Thor knows this game well, has played it countless times between the sheets with beautiful girls, warm and soft under him. He thought he knew it all but as his fingers clumsily part the black cloth to reveal smooth stripes of white skin, his mind is blank, his mouth dry and hesitant.

The Trickster takes advantage of his hesitation to reverse their position, stretching slowly over Thor’s body, fingers caressing reverently Thor’s beloved leather. He kneels on Thor’s thighs, bringing their weights closely together as he quietly unlaces the tightenings of Thor’s jerkin and his hand hovers over the lacings of his trousers, Thor reaches to cup the man’s cheek. The Trickster catches it, bringing to his mouth instead and Thor’s breath grows short as the man kisses his palm thoroughly, biting his skin and sucking the scarred skin where the white stoat once sank his teeth. The doubts in his mind die away as the man finally brings Thor’s hand against his chest, where his heart is beating strong and true, allowing his smile to become brightand mad before he leans down to meet Thor in an open kiss. 

They tear at each other like children, fighting silently against each other and there is no grace to their movements, only quiet urgency. The Trickster is relentless, almost selfish, above him, adjusting his body and the slow rocking of his hips until he is left gasping with each stroke and Thor thrusts shakily in response, clutching the man’s hips in a bruising grip.

Lips parted, cheeks flushed red, the man looks almost painfully beautiful and Thor straightens, bringing the man’s chest flush against his own. Their rhythm falters and the Trickster whines at the loss, eyes closed, arms tight around Thor’s neck and fingers lost in blonde hair. Upon hearing the moan, more honest than any words that were spoken by the fire, Thor cannot bear it any longer.

“Your name,” Thor demands in a rough whisper, reveling in each broken gasp, as their hips recover the right movements. “You must give me your name.”

“Loki—“ the man pants out as he shakes against Thor’s broad chest and the quiet revelation is like devastation in Thor’s mind. “I am Loki.”

_Loki,_ he means to say but the man, _Loki,_ buries his face against Thor’s neck.

“No, do not say it,” his lips mouth against the skin of Thor’s neck. “Guard it close to your heart. Keep it safe, but I beg you, do not say it.”

“How can I?” Thor pants, but Loki catches his mouth, silencing him more effectively than any words or solemn vows would.

_Loki,_ Thor thinks reverently as he lets himself be stretched back into the furs.

 

 

*

 

 

The Good King wept, and wept, and wept until his tears had frozen on his cheek shaping a crystal dagger. Only then, did the King stand up, tall and unbroken, face glinting in the sun. 

_Hear, hear, my people,_ the King called out from the terrace of his castle, _I have not forsaken you. Behold, cursed snow,_ the Good King shouted as he wrenched the icy dagger from his cheek leaving a black and gaping hole where his right eye once was.

The snow recoiled when red drops dripped from the King's empty socket to stain its once pure coat and stared in horror as the King fastened the bloody dagger to the end of his mighty spear.

_You have broken the peace of my realm and declared war upon the Aesirs,_ the King declaimed in a clear and terrible voice, brandishing his fearsome weapon defiantly over his head.  _Madness you have chosen, evil you have become, and for that, never again shall the people of Asgard gaze upon your folly._

And as the spear grew bright and scorching like the sun, the King plunged it deep into the ground. Under the unforgiving power of his rage and grief, the Snow screeched and started to melt. The mountains of ice disappeared from the silent houses, releasing their unmoving owners. It withdrew from the fields where herds of cows, goats and sheep were gently resting as if deep in sleep. And as the snow disappeared, a form slowly emerged under the glow of the King's spear: a man-like creature, naked and shivering, tall and gaunt.

_I name you Wintersmith and forever accursed,_ the King spoke lowering his weapon, gazing with distrust upon the man. 

With dark hair and white skin, beautiful most would have called him but his eyes were hard and cold as ice for he was the snow, ensnared in a body of flesh and blood.  

_Be gone, foul creature,_ the Good King spoke again. _I condemn you to live powerless and banished for all times. Suffer my wrath if you ever appear before me again._

The trapped snow remained silent for it knew not how to speak with tongue and teeth, only with wind and frost, but his eyes were full of rage and malice and promises so terrible that all in the Golden Realm shivered in fear. Swaying like a newborn fawn, the Wintersmith vanished like a cursed god between the darks trees of the woods, never to return, forever to crouch in the shadows.

And never again did snow fall in the realm of Asgard.

 

 

*

 

 

He is waken suddenly either by the rays of the morning sun shifting through the wooden panes or by the absent warmth of a body against his own. He wakes and his body is languid, comforted by the easy satisfaction of the flesh and the softness of the sheep pelt against his skin. He could easily slip back to sleep, but the weight of a hand on his chest is impossible to ignore.

The light is soothing and warm compared to this biting air of the cabin. Loki is sitting on the edge of the bed, still bare. His back is bent and Thor can distinguish each rib, count each fine bone barely hidden under his skin. One hand is resting heavily on Thor’s chest, hot and moist while with the other, he cradles his bowed head, hiding his face from Thor’s greedy gaze. There is elegance in the man’s pose, in the careless grace of his long limbs, but it reeks of defeat and regrets and Thor grows wary.

“Loki—“ Thor whispers, voice still rough from sleep.

Loki tenses and when he finally turns his head towards him, Thor catches the hand still resting on his chest, offering him a small smile while Loki’s eyes linger on the column of his throat, his jaw, his lips until their eyes catch and hold.

Thor can remember the grain of the man’s skin under his lips, the subtle shifting of muscles under his palms, the pliant trust the man offered almost naturally. The blood is simmering under his veins and he brings their joint hands to his mouth, leaving a reverent kiss on Loki’s skin. A complicated smile blooms on Loki’s face, torn between amusement and heartbreak and Thor wants to wipe it away, to shake the man apart like the night before until he is left only gasping with honest, straightforward want.

“Loki—“ he rumbles, letting the syllables roll comfortably on his tongue.

In a swift movement, Loki crawls over him, fitting his body along Thor’s body. His mouth latches on Thor’s throat and he groans, reveling in the wet suction. He sinks his free hand in black hair and feels Loki’s lips stretch into a smile.

“To hear my name on your lips in the morning light,” Loki whispers against his throat. “How could I give it up?” He lifts his head and his eyes are like steel. “I will not give it up, Thor.”

“What—“ Thor begins but he falls silent as Loki stretches their joined hands above his head, pining his to the mattress.

“I will keep you” Loki says and dives for Thor’s mouth. They embrace deeply, messily for a long moment. Loki is brutal over him, taking his mouth as if he will never have it again, as if he must memorize its shape and its taste. Thor lets him, lets him hover him and guide their kiss. It feels glorious: Loki’s knees tight against his hips, his hand holding his above his head, the hot tangle of their tongues moving sedately together.

_This might be perfection,_ Thor reflects, stroking the endless line of Loki’s back, counting each rib again and again under his hand, until Loki shifts and abruptly, there is the unmistakable coldness of steel against his throat.

Loki breaks the kiss but stays close, breathing raggedly against Thor’s lips. There is a moment of stillness where Thor blinks, wondering if he imagines the threat against his throat, but as he means to move, Loki snarls.

“Be still.”

“What—“ Thor stutters against the growing pressure of the blade against his neck. He does even not think to fight; he can still taste Loki against his tongue, his body is still warm from their closeness. But he does not recognize the man standing above him when his elegant face is distorted by resolve, when his eyes are like two chips of ice.

“Listen to me carefully, prince,” Loki says, voice like a whip. “You will go back to your father and bring him this message.”

“Loki,” Thor tries again, swallowing with difficulty against the sharp edge of the blade, “what madness is this?”

“Enough, listen to me,” the man warns. “Run back to your father, and tell him—“ he falters, “tell him that too long have I cowered in the woods like an outcast, fearing his fading might. But no more, I will take back what is mine.”

With a cruel shove, Loki gets off him, wrapping himself swiftly in his black cloak. In a few steps, he is at the small table and he rests a hand on the rough wood, letting the blade clatter loudly.

“Loki—“ Thor breathes, stumbling to his feet, moving to reach the man, to make him regain his senses.

Surely if Thor embraces him, the man’s reason will be restored. But before he can reach him, the Trickster swirls around and the blade is back cold and dangerous at Thor’s throat.

_My dagger,_ Thor realizes, _when did he even take it?_

“Go back to your father, prince,” Loki says, “and bring him my message.”

“What are you saying—“ Thor tries again, raising his hands in surrender.

“War, Thor,” Loki snaps. “I am offering you war. Was that not your only desire?”

_Yes,_ Thor thinks, _all my life I have strived for violence, but now—_

Thor knows the man’s strength. He has felt the muscles under his hand and his mouth. He knows how easily he can overpower him. He squares his jaw and with a swift blow, swats the man’s threatening arm like an annoying insect. He surges, body coiled like a string. If he can catch Loki’s throat, it will be his turn to make him listen.

But before he can grab him, the air shimmers and the shape of the Trickster flickers. Thor stumbles, disoriented and before he can regain his balance, there’s a knee against the small of his back.

“You never learn, don’t you?” Loki whispers against his neck as he grabs Thor’s right arm and twists it cruelly behind his back.

Thor yells as his right shoulder explodes in bright pain and he falls to his knees under the unforgiving pressure. Thor grits his teeth, trying to grab the man with his free hand. Everything would do, his hair, his arm, even the black cloak wrapped flimsily around him. Once Thor has him under his hands, he knows he can overpower him. But Loki only moves cleverly behind, remaining out of reach. Thor snarls, trying desperately to twist but the pain in his shoulder is too fierce.

“Go back to your father,” Loki rasps. “Tomorrow we shall be enemies.”

“Stop—“ Thor grits out.

“You will hate me as you should,” Loki snaps with a sharp laugh, and Thor struggles harder against his hold. “But I would take your hate a thousand times over anything else you might offer.”

Loki releases his arm as suddenly as he seized him and before Thor can move, Loki grabs his neck and slams his knee into Thor’s belly so violently that the breath leaves him in a rush and he clatters to the floor like a heavy bag of meat.

“Do not worry, Thor. Tomorrow we shall hate each other and all will be as it should be,” he hears as he struggles on his hands, then on his knees, laboring for breath. “All will be well.”

 

 

*

 

 

Sometimes, when the weather was fine and Thor grew too weary, he would make his way to the clearing. There, he leaved his stallion to roam the woods and he stretched quietly at the edge of the clearing where the sun shined for a few hours despite the high trees.

Those were beautiful days, when the sun burned high in the sky and warmed his skin. If Thor was lucky, the small white stoat would creep up to him and slowly climb over his arm, nuzzling his neck or his chest as if asking permission to bother him. Sometimes, the little imp even climbed over his face, resting its paws insolently on Thor’s cheeks, and they would stare at each other. Thor always lost the contest but he did not mind. After their little game, the stoat would always wrap his little body around Thor’s neck, tucking his face snugly beneath his ear.

_The Lord of Summer_ , he called himself as the beat of the little’s imp heart moved sluggishly against his throat.

 

 

*

 

 

When he finally manages to catch his breath, the door of the small cottage stands wide open like a clever taunt. Thor clambers out of the door, his naked body seizing in the winter wind. The fire has long gone out, the carcass of the duck is nowhere to be seen, probably stolen by some half-starved scavenger, and Loki is gone.

He takes a stumbling step forward, bare feet sinking in the snow.

“Loki—“ he whispers, longing to feel the man’s name on his tongue.

He tries again but his call echoes weakly in the empty clearing. So he yells louder, and louder, until his voice is hoarse and his feet frozen.

There is movement in the corner of his eye and he turns warily.

_My little friend,_ Thor thinks as he spots the white stoat. The beast is sitting on its haunches, watching him from the tree stump that Loki used as a throne.

_Loki_ , he despairs, _what madness has you in its hold?_

The stoat makes an annoyed noise, demanding his attention.

“You would not betray me so, my little friend, would you?” Thor says in a rough breath.

The animal only gives him a pointed look and Thor realizes he is still standing naked in the snow. His feet have grown numb and there is a shiver spreading along his skin that bodes ill.

“Ah—“ he whispers, unable to laugh at himself. He has enough of false smiles and dangerous laughs.

He returns to the small cottage where the pelts of the bed lay in revealing disarray. The indent of two bodies still lingers on the thick mattress and in an instant anger is all he knows. He grabs the rudimentary chair and throws it wildly towards the bed. It hits the opposite wall with a resounding clatter, dislodging one of the wooden panes, which crashes in a deaf sound on the bed.

His clothes are still lying on the floor where Loki had carelessly discarded them and his fists tighten at his sides.

_I will find you, Trickster,_ Thor vows _, and when I am done with you, you will be begging for mercy._

Piece by piece, he retrieves his clothing and he dresses slowly to calm his rage. But the linen is rough against his skin, the sleeves too tight around his forearms. Even the leather sits awkwardly on his shoulders

_I have been such a fool,_ Thorthinks as he stares at the bed. _All children know to distrust the snow and yet I have chosen to lie with it._

But Loki had grown warm under his hands and Thor had gone mad with want.

_He really was the Wintersmith,_ Thor thinks ruefully, _and I am the foolish boy who chose to dance and die._

The stoat is still sitting patiently on the stump when Thor finally leaves the small cabin. He is shivering and he wishes the fire would still burn bright so that he could warm his chilled body. He could wrap the heavy sheep pelt around his shoulders but he remembers how Loki had draped the pelt snugly over them, how he had tucked his body comfortably against Thor’s, tangling their legs together and laying a last kiss on Thor’s collarbone, and he cringes. He would rather be cold than use the damn pelt.

He sits down heavily on the log and finds the jug of wine they abandoned but a few hours ago. Thor finds it ice cold but not frozen and he takes long swallows of wine without pausing for breaths. When it is empty, Thor almost feels nauseous and he lets it fall dully from his fingers.

Should he run back to his father and warn him of this new enemy? It could only be an empty threat. Loki came back once; perhaps he will come back again if Thor waits. Then they can talk and they can laugh and kiss. Surely Loki was jesting, surely he meant no words of his. No man can defy the Allfather and the armies of Asgard alone. It is folly. The man is mad.

He feels small paws grip the leg of his trousers and suddenly the small stoat is sitting on its lap.

“What should I do?” Thor asks, running a finger slowly against the white fur. “My little friend, what should I do?”

The stoat gives no answer, only paws at Thor’s thigh and lies down comfortably. Together they wait. When Thor grows hungry, he finds the rest of the bread and the wheel of cheese he brought with him. The stoat looks up but loses interest quickly after a few inquisitive sniffs.

They wait until Thor’s impatience runs wild and his resolve grows strong. When the sun is high in the sky, Thor stands, brusquely dislodging the stoat from his lap. He picks up his axe, ties his empty satchel on his back and without looking back, he leaves.

_We will meet again, Loki,_ he swears silently, _whether you come for my father’s blood in the citadel’s hall or I have to hunt you down throughout the nine realms, we will meet again and I will make you see reason._

The way through the winding path to the clearing seems much easier even if the wind has picked up, blowing hard against his back, pressing him down the slope, and he stumbles more than a few times. Gradually, trees lose their cover of snow. His boots stop crunching on the ice to sink again silently in the fir needles. Clouds have gathered in the sky and soon the rain begins to fall steadily, beating down the leaves, drowning all other sounds. When he finds himself back to the clearing, he is drenched and he finds his horse still waiting for him, looking lost and nervous. He neighs softly and trots up to Thor.

“Were you worried?” Thor asks stroking his powerful neck absently. “We shall go home now.”

Thor mounts and his horse makes his way eagerly through the forest. The rain beats relentlessly on his head and when they emerge from the cover of the woods, a violent gust of wind slaps him in the face and he is dizzy, bile rising high in his throat. Unwittingly his hand comes up to his mouth.

“Thor!” a voice calls out, and when he looks up, Heimdall is running precariously towards him, as fast as his limp will allow him. “My prince!”

His horse stops and frets nervously as Heimdall finally reaches them. “What is it, Heimdall?”

“My prince—“ he stutters, “I did not see you return from your hunt yesterday. I could not see— I could not see you. Are you—“

“As you see,” Thor interrupts, “I have returned now.”

He nods at the old soldier, meaning to move away. He longs for a bath and a bed to assuage the low buzzing in his ears and soothe the pain in his shoulder but Heimdall quickly grasps the bridle of Thor’s horse.

“Thor, you know that the forest is full of terrors,” the old man presses. “Tell me, what is it that kept you in the woods?”

“Nothing,” Thor snaps. “I—“ He hesitates, vision blurring. “I merely got lost.”

He spurs his horse forward and Heimdall must take a step back, hastily releasing the bridle to avoid bruising hooves.

“My prince!” Heimdall calls again but Thor rides on.

He rides on, swift and hard, feeling the muscles of his horse strain under him until foam has gathered at the edge of the beast’s mouth, but Thor does not relent. It is dark when he reaches the castle and he can hardly see through the bright pain churning in his head.

He stumbles to his chambers and falls onto his bed like a dead weight. There is dread and danger at the edge of his mind but he simply drags his coverlet over his aching body and falls asleep.

When he wakes, his father is standing at the end of his bed. The King looks like an old man, broken and defeated, leaning heavily on his spear but when Thor blinks blearily, trying to dissipate the hazy fog of sleep from his mind and calm the whiffs of nausea, the image blurs and the King stands tall and terrifying again. Thor struggles to sit up; his heart feels heavy and his shoulder burns. 

“Thor—“ Odin rasps.

When Thor wakes, his father is standing at the end of his bed and the realm of Asgard is covered in snow.

“My son,” Odin whispers. “What have you done?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Winter.  
> Find me on tumblr. Leave me a comment, tell me what you thought!  
> For those who are interested, the lullaby is in icelandic, which is roughly translated and edited to suit the pace of the story, but it's definitely real. Also, the song that Thor sings when he enters the forest is Belle, qui tient ma vie, which is part of the mix, and translated faithfully.  
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Summer I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if you saw the chapter before this version, it was not finished and only meant to be a draft, but AO3 had other ideas. This is the edited version.

**Part II. Summer**

 

* 

 

There is a weapon that no one dares touch.

It took centuries for the Elves to forge it. So long that hoards of men were born in the light of the forge, spent their childhood burning the tips of their fingers stoking the blue fires of her oven, wasted the strength of their adulthood crafting wood and iron, and died without any hope of ever catching a glimpse of the completed artifact. Yes, it took so long that fathers and sons, generations upon generations, were born and died only to serve her.

When the first Elves stumbled on the fallen star, they thought to break down her core to shape tiny jewels, for she was bright and more fascinating than the laughs of their daughters. They could already imagine necklaces and rings and bracelets shining on the graceful bodies of their wives but as soon as they touched her heart, they knew they were fighting thunder and the emptiness of space and that never would she consent being reduced to a simple ornament.

She was to be a weapon, swift and terrible, and the Elves bled and sweat until the storms were tamed and they could wrap her heart in steel and leather, iron and silver. For so long they labored that the original design was forgotten and the Elves had to gather around the uncompleted artifact, puzzled and dejected.

 _A sword,_ all cried, _of course it is a sword, the most noble of all weapons._

But when they tried to flatten her heart, their tools shattered like glass.

 _A mace then,_ some offered, _surely it must be a mace._

But when they tried to forge the spikes of her head, they burnt their hands and lost their fingers to the fire.

 _A shield,_ even fewer proposed, _perhaps it was ever meant to protect._

But when they tried to fasten wood and nails around her heart, they rotted and rusted like leaves in autumn. It was not her fate.

 _A hammer,_ a single voice finally sang out, and the thunder in her heart hummed in pleasure for it was her fate.

For centuries they worked and when finally the day came when no angle could be smoother, no rune could be engraved more beautifully, no golden thread could be added without disturbing her perfect balance, the hammer was deemed complete.

The Elven Folk rejoiced and for months, they celebrated their craftsmanship and their art. They invited royalty from all kingdoms, warrior from all realms, and soon, celebrations turned sour and dark for they realized the humbling, heart-breaking truth. 

No one could lift her.

Crusher, the men of the nine realms called her for she ruined the Elven kingdom. The Elves had poured all their knowledge and wealth to create her but the hammer rewarded them with greed and selfishness.

Thousands came to the forge, long grown cold. Warriors and scholars, princes and peasants, heroes and villains, all tried their hands but no one could lift her. Centuries passed and each year less travellers tried to claim her gilded handle, until years, decades passed with no one to disturb her peace.

The forge crumbled first around the hammer, then the city, then the Elven kingdom ruined by her ungratefulness and the hammer fell through worlds and time with no master and no purpose. But all knew that there was thunder in her core, and when she would rise in battle, her cry would unleash storms as never were seen and her might would crush bones and skulls, level cities and mountains, destroy realms and entire worlds.

The warrior who would claim her would never be defeated for he would become a God.

Crusher, the men of the nine realms called her but in the old tongue of the Elves, her name was Mjölnir.

 

 

*

 

 

His father stays silent as Thor stumbles to his open window. The brightness of his realm blinds him for an instant and he has to rest a heavy hand on the window frame incrusted with ice before he can truly contemplate the landscapes of his realm buried under heaps of snow.

It should be horrifying. It’s only beautiful.

“Father,” Thor says in a breath, “what is the meaning of this?”

The King steps to his son’s side. “A warning.”

Thor wrenches his gaze from the snowy landscapes but Odin is still facing the morning sun unblinkingly, his presence feels huge and inescapable as if Thor were again a young child, clinging reluctantly to his father’s hand.

“An old foe has awaken and is giving us a warning,” Odin adds. “War has come at our doorstep.”

Thor’s hand comes up to his shoulder and he rubs the joints slowly, trying to loosen his aching muscles, struggling to find the right rhythm to the few verses of the old lullaby that usually soothes him. There is a bitter taste in his mouth, an unpleasant blend between smoke and anger. He wishes he could wash it away with bread and tea.

“War?“ Thor asks slowly, as if his mind failed to process the reality.

“Like in the stories of old. I had hoped—“ his father trails off, shrugging. “It doesn’t matter now. Snow has come again in Asgard and we must go to war.”

Thor shakes his head in disbelief. “You mean to tell me the fairytale was true?”

“Where do myths come from if not the truth?” his father chides. “Have I not taught you that?”

“Well yes, but I—“ Thor says but his father is not listening.

“You must come at once. I would speak with you in the Great Hall.”

“But Father—“ Thor tries again.

“There is no time,” Odin cuts, turning his lonely eye to Thor. “Come at once.”

The King clasps Thor’s shoulder and there is an awkward moment where Thor watches his father struggle with aborted sentences and unformed thoughts before he sighs, nods once and strides out of his chambers.

Thor exhales slowly, resting his elbows on the windowsill, letting his eyes roam over the white roofs of the cities.

_A threat? A warning? What kind of wretched enemy would use snowflakes as a beacon for war?_

Thor only feels weary. A few months ago, he would have already been diving for his armor, eager to defend his birthright and draw foreign blood. But his heart is heavy and his mind muddled as if his rest had been shallow and far too short. Foolishly he wishes he could saddle his horse and ride for the forest. The woods would be fascinating covered in white. He could wrap himself in a thick woolen coat and lie down on the frozen ground of the clearing. How long would he stay warm, he wonders. Perhaps the small stoat would take advantage of the snow to creep towards him on his belly, almost invisible against the whitened ground, and try to ambush him.

Thor shudders, rubbing his eyes to the point of pain. The nausea lingers at the back of his mouth and he forces himself to repeat the verses of the old lullaby until his jumbled thoughts fall into precise ranks. There is panic at the edge of his mind, blurry images covered in fog but Thor cannot make sense of them. They lie out of his reach, like a dream one would try too hard to remember and would slip further and further away with each attempt.

There is a timid knock at his door and the head of a boy appears in the doorframe.

Thor beckons to him impatiently and the boy pushes the door awkwardly with his shoulder, trying to protect the tray he is carrying. He deposits it hastily on the table and scrambles away fearfully when Thor approaches.   

 _Thank you mother_ , Thor thinks as he pops two cinnamon rolls in his mouth and washes them down with the mug of black tea.

He goes to the massive wooden chest where his armor waits for him and Thor dons the many pieces of his armor hastily, too preoccupied by his father’s pressing summon to be truly efficient. The boy helps him fasten the complicated latches of his breastplate, cringing and fumbling under Thor’s impatience.

His armor is magnificent, steel and leather wound together in complicated patterns that preserve his movements but protect him from heavy blows. Each piece is unique, fitted especially for his body, crafted with dexterity and adorned in black, red or gold with the runes of his father’s house. It is an armor made to impress and clamor his rank and Thor always dons it with an unshakable sense of pride and duty.

 _To battle,_ Thor sighs, fingers hovering over Thurmuth, and he picks up his sword to fasten it at his waist.

 

Despite the crowd of noble men, the silence is deafening in his father’s hall when Thor makes his entrance. Only the soldiers are clad in heavy and rich armors similar to Thor’s attire but all wear grim expressions as their eyes follow him through his Father’s hall. There is no chatter, no calls of his name, only the lonely clatter of his boots against the stone floor.

Thor refuses to be intimidated.

His friends come forward as he finally reaches the front lines of the assembly, and he spares an instant to clasp their shoulders. They look solemn, ready for battle and Thor wonders if he’s the only soul caught unaware by violence on this morning.

His father is standing in front of his high throne. He seems carved out of rock, ensconced by his armor and his heavy cloak. Behind him, his mother hovers uncertainly, looking old and exhausted, deep lines etched into her once lovely face, expression bordering on despair.

“Thor, my heir,” his father thunders as Thor sinks to one knee, hand coming up to rest upon his heart.

His father slowly descends the steps and comes to stand in front of him.

“Rise, my son,” his father commands. “You have grown and the time has come. I would make you King.”

There is a collective gasp through the hall, a rolling wave of mutters and hushed comments but Thor can only stare at his father in amazement, while his mother raises a hand to her mouth, eyes widening in shock.

“My rule has been long and plentiful,” Odin continues, voice ringing loudly, quieting the murmurs of the crowd. “But I find it must come to an end.”

“Please, Father,” Thor argues, barely keeping his voice from emerging in a shout, “you still have many days ahead of you as our beloved king, your rule will endure and be gracious and just as it always has been.”

“No, Thor,” his father counters, laying a strong hand on Thor’s shoulders. “Snow has come again in Asgard. It is time.”

There is such finality in his father’s word that Thor has no choice but to sink to one knee, heart beating so hard and fast that for a moment he fears he might stutter.

“My King,” he says. “I will guard the realm and strive that my people may live good and honest lives.” He looks up and there is a dull pain in his heart. He dreamed of this moment since he was a little boy and in his fantasy, his father was always looking at him with pride and affection. But today, there’s only steel in Odin’s eyes. “This, I swear.”  

His father nods. “Your oath is strong and true, my son. You shall rule your kingdom fairly, but first, we must answer the threat that has risen at our door.”

The king steps forward.

“War has come,” he shouts and the roar that erupts from the warriors fills the hall of the Allfather to the brim. There are smiles and bloodlust on the warriors’ face as they shout but Thor finds he cannot join in their anticipation. He feels like a child lost in a conversation that he cannot follow and his fingers curls around the hilt of Thurmuth. He searches his mother’s gaze for some kind of reassurance but Frigga keeps her head bowed.

“The truce has been broken,” Odin shouts. “And Asgard will go to war.”

“Aye!” a hundred voices yell in agreement, hall ringing with their joy, the drums of their fists against their shields.

“Thor, my son,” Odin continues when silence is returned to the hall. “This warning has been triggered by one man. I thought him under my control but he grew treacherous and deceitful. As in the tales of old, he covered Asgard in snow and broke the peace we had forged between us.”

Odin pauses and when he speaks again, his voice is heavy.

“This man lives in the woods amidst snow and chaos,” he says. “My son, you must find him and bring me his head.”

“No!” his mother cries. She descends the stairs shakily, almost stumbling down the steps. “My love, hear what you suggest. You would commit to this madness?”

“There is no other choice, wife,” Odin says for her ears only and Frigga shakes her head in despair. “Only his death will free the house of Odin.”

His father turns back to him and Thor forces himself to wrench his gaze from the tears gathering at the corners of his mother’s eyes.

“There is long history of deceit and hatred between this foe and I,” Odin says. “He comes for my life but I must entrust my defense to you, my heir. Only you may defeat him. If he lives, our line will crumble and all will be lost.”

There is a tense silence in the hall where the reality of this threat uttered so frankly by the Allfather finally sinks.

“Thor Odinson,” his father roars, “if you complete this task, I shall make you king. Do you accept?”

And what can Thor do when his father looks at him with such expectation?

“I do.”  

“Then, go,” his father commands, “find this cursed soul and bring me his heart.”

 _A life for my throne_ , Thor thinks as the crowd roars, _surely it is a small price to pay._

 

 

*

 

 

When Thor receives Thurmuth from his father’s hand, the crowd does not cheer. There is a stunned silence until whispers spread from one platform to the next and swell into an intelligible clatter.

The crowd hushes as quickly as it roared when Týr comes forward. The War God, the people call him, commander of the first regiment, wise and brave, respected by all. Bulky and taller than most with bright and long red hair, he was ever but one step behind the king as Thor grew up.

“Allfather,” Týr says as he sinks to one knee. “He may be your son and our prince, but he is not worthy.”

The words are like a slap to Thor’s face. The whispers he could endure, the growing doubt poisoning his mind he had to accommodate, but this direct insult is more than he can bear.

“Holmgang!” Thor hears himself shout through layers of rage and pride before his father can speak. “I challenge Týr Hymirson to holmgang.”

Týr rises slowly, so slowly that Thor swears he can hear the sinews shift and stretch under the soldier’s skin over the absolute silence of the training grounds.

“I accept the challenge,” the first commander says.

They turn to Odin, who only closes his single eye briefly. 

“First blood,” the King rules with a sigh. “Fools, fight now and be done with it.”

Afterwards, Thor won’t remember much of the fight, only the rush of blood in his ears, and Thurmuth’s cool leather in his hand. He needs not think: this is an easy world, ruled by the familiar tang of sawdust, the burning of his muscles and bloodlust like thunder in his fingertips.

 _They call you unworthy. Kill them all,_ his mind is chanting, but it feels strange, almost as if spoken in a foreign tongue. _You will be the greatest warrior Asgard has ever known._

When blood spurts from a shallow gash in Týr’s neck, Odin himself intervenes to put an end to the fight. But even then, Thor struggles to lower his weapon, wishing madly that the fight were to the death.

Týr’s hand rises slowly to his throat as if he could not believe the betrayal of his body and when his fingers come away red with blood, Týr’s lip curls, eyes flashing with anger, before he throws down his sword Ùlfurhöfuð to the Allftather’s feet.

“I recognize my defeat,” Týr snarls. “But if he must be a warrior of Asgard, then I cannot be.”

“Insult me again, Hymirson,” Thor whispers through clenched teeth, “and you will walk away without your head.”

Thor wins everything that day: weapon, rank and honor. But as Týr stalks away from the training grounds, leaving his beloved wolf-head behind to be eaten by dust and worms, the lingering silence of the crowd and the forlorn gaze of his father tell him otherwise.

The people swiftly forget the old kenning on that day and devise a new one, shameful but true: the one-handed God.

                 

 

 

*

 

 

As soon as they are alone, Sif collapses into his arms. Their heavy armors make the embrace uncomfortable and Thor is too surprised to react. He cannot remember the last time Sif touched him willingly. No, this is a lie but Thor does not like to dwell on their last kiss.

“Bless this day, my prince,” she says against his neck when Thor’s hand finally comes up to the small of her back, returning her embrace awkwardly. The bittersweet softness of her body against him is like a kick in the guts. “Today it ends and you shall be our king.”

It sounds easy on her tongue but Thor is doubtful.

 _You will find him, my son, and you will know when you see him,_ Odin only said, brushing away all his questions. _Take your friends with you; they will assist you in your quest._

How is he to find this foe? Should Thor upturn every stone in the realm or will he come forward and politely fall on Thor’s sword? This is foolish.

Thor pushes Sif away.

“This is foolish”, he repeats aloud. “How am I to find this nameless foe? War is not a children’s game. Am I to play hide and seek without knowing my opponent?”

“Thor—“ Sif tries to say but Hogun detaches himself from the wall.

“Enough,” he says calmly and comes to stand between them, laying a hand on each of their shoulders. “We will stand by your side as your friends and help you accomplish your quest as we must. The Allfather gave us directions before you arrived, we are not blind in this task.”

Thor snorts. “Maybe you are not but I feel like a mole in the daylight. Why would my father not speak to me directly?”

“It is not our place to question the Allfather’s command,” Hogun says.

 _Would they hide something from me?_ Thor wonders absently, considering his friend impassive face and is immediately ashamed. He could not wish for more loyal companions.

“We must not lose time,” Sif presses.

“Yes!” Volstagg bellows as he smashes a cup on the floor. “Ah, my arm is hungry for action and death!”

“You are always hungry,” Fandral snorts.

Volstagg only laughs but there is a ferocious glint in his eye. “Yes, but this peculiar feast shall be the best of all.”

“You lack imagination,” Fandral retorts, coming to Thor’s side. “No, my friends, we shall have the best feast of our lives when we come back victorious, bearing the Liesmith’s heart high above our heads, and we shall toast to your health, Thor, as our Commander and Liege Lord.”

“Aye, you are right, Fandral,” Hogun agrees solemnly.

“Aye!” Volstagg echoes in a roar and together they laugh.

Thor looks at his friends, how tall and proud they stand next to him. Even when Thor’s heart is churning with doubt, their loyalty is like a rock and Thor knows that there is only one way to honor them.

“Boy!” Thor calls out. “Mead for my friends!”

The cupbearer almost trips over his feet in his haste to bring them their cups.

“My friends,” Thor grins as they bring their glasses together, “together we stand as always and again we shall ride into battle.”

“To war”, Sif says with bright eyes.

“Yes,” Thor says, and he pushes the remaining tendrils of smoke and doubt out of his mind. “To war and victory!”

“To war and victory!” his friends roar, draining their mead and smashing their cups in unison against the stone floor.

“When we drink again,” Thor says, feeling resolve harden his heart, “you will toast directly to the good health of your new king.”

Laughing, they reach the royal stables where the boys have readied their mounts. Quickly they finish their preparations, checking a last time the good stand of their weapons, fastening bundle of food and basic medical items to the saddlebags. As they fasten heavy cloaks lined with rich furs to their armors, they exchange light-hearted banter to chase the pre-battles nerves and fill the oppressing silence. They laugh easily when Volstagg’s horse huffs with difficulty as his owner climbs on his back and together, they ride out.

Their good humor is short-lived. As the hooves of their horses sink in the unfamiliar snow, the beasts slip, neighing fearfully when their lank ankles twist. Thor quickly reigns in his mount, signaling his friends to follow his suit until they reach a slow march.

They have set out together a thousand times but as they sluggishly make their way through the streets of the citadels, they realize how fundamentally different this morning is. It seems the snow has suffocated all life, drowning all colors under a neutral, deathly white. The sounds are muffled and Thor rubs his ears absently, irrationally worried that he suddenly went deaf. The doors are systematically bolted and the curtains drawn. There are no men calling their names and wishing them a victorious return, there are no boys with eager smiles or girls with ribbons in their hair straining against their mother’s hold, wishing they could come closer and pet their fearsome stallions.   

“Have we taken a wrong turn and entered a tomb?” Volstagg wonders aloud, his deep voice barely audible. “Where are the people?”

“Hiding,” Hogun answers, fingers tightening on the reins. “They fear what the snow brings.”

“As they should,” Sif sneers, glaring nastily at her surroundings.

Thor hesitates. “A warning, my father said.”

His friends exchange a look. “Thor,” Hogun begins, “you must trust your father’s words.”

Thor levels a considering look to the commander of the Middle Regiment. “Must I?” he says reflectively. “My father sends me to kill a single man. Is he such an incredible opponent that all the city trembles behind their walls?”

“You must not take this lightly,” Fandral says suddenly and Thor snorts, finding that his resolve is tenuous as a thread.   

“You dare give me such counsel, you who only take seriously the state of your hair?” he blurts out almost meanly. “I am Odinson, soon-to-be your king. My father’s word is my command and I shall face this foe with all my might whoever he is.”

His friends fall silent as Thor spurs his horse forward to avoid their eyes. When they finally ride through the city, Thor is relieved. The silence will be less oppressing in the open fields where there are less sounds to be missed.

How wrong he is. It is even worse. The air is crisp and utterly dead. Usually, the fields are vibrant with the cries of birds and insects, the incessant rustling of the wind in the grass but now, the birds and the insects lay low in their shelter, the wind finds no grass to tease.

 _Beautiful, aren’t I?_ A voice whispers in his mind.

 _Yes,_ Thor cannot help but think. The pace of their horses is slow in the calf-deep snow and Thor can barely follow the trace of the road, the only hint of its curve in the irregularities of snow’s layers. When they reach the crossroads, he guides his horse left towards the forest.

“Hogun,” Thor barks, “ride with me.”

He clenches and unclenches his fists. He did not think to bring gloves and the frigid air has already numbed his fingers.

“Now, tell me,” Thor says when Hogun has caught up with him. “What did my father say that he could not confide to me? Where shall we find our foe?”

“We are to follow the road until we reach the forest.” Hogun recites, like a well-rehearsed script. “From there—“

“I find it odd—“, Thor interrupts without thinking. He clears his throat, starts again. “I find it odd that I struggle with the reality of this snow and that you, my friends of old, are only too eager to go chasing after a child’s fantasy.”

Hogun’s nostrils flare lightly: the only physical reaction showing that the question has unsettled him.

 _Why do you trust him?_ A voice says in his mind. _Don’t you see, my foolish love? Don’t you see how he lies to you?_

“Tell me what you know,” Thor threatens.

“Thor,” Sif’s voice calls and she rides to his side. “The foe we are facing does not fight with the strength of his arm. He is no warrior.”

“Then he shall be an easy prey,” Thor retorts. “His demise will bring me no glory.”

“Listen to me,” she presses. “You must not let the Liesmith speak. When you see him, strike him down. Let your arm be fierce and true. He would ensnare you in his lies and illusions if you let him play with his poisonous words. You would lose your mind.”

Thor looks at her delicate face hidden under her hood. “You think me vulnerable to such tricks.” He laughs. “I—“

But the words die in his mouth for the woods loom menacingly in front of his eyes, a delicate balance between darkness and light, and Heimdall’s farm burns bright in front of the black trees, engulfed in red angry flames.

“No—“ Sif whispers.

Thor wastes no time for words or wails, he kicks his horse’s flank, keeping a growl deep inside his chest and together they fly across the snowy field towards the farm, barely aware of his friends behind him. He stumbles off his horse before the beast even stills and rushes to the house until he is too close and the flames lick his face eagerly.

“Heimdall!” he screams, but the house stays silent but for the painful groans of falling beams and the dangerous whistles of burning thatch.

Around the wrecked farm, the snow has melted under the heat of the fire and Thor's boots sink deep in the mud as he tries to find a way into the carnage. He shields his eyes, peering helplessly through the flames to spot the figure of his friend or his family. “Heimdall!” he yells again, inching closer and he winces. The smoke is stifling and he almost chokes. The flames are too hot, the metal of his armor grows painful against his skin, the thin cotton layer useless to ward off the mounting heat of his breastplate. The smell of burning hair fills his flared nostrils, his face hurts behind his raised hand before Volstagg's beefy hands land like two stone maces on his shoulders and yank him away from the fire.

“No!” Thor roars trying to free himself but Volstagg merely grunts, dragging him forcefully away from danger and dumping him head first on the ground.

The snow is cold and pure relief against his aching face, and for a moment, Thor sinks his throbbing hands deep in the snow.

“We must help them,” Thor orders, struggling on his hands watching in disbelief as his friends simply stand undecided.

“It is too late,” Sif reasons, heartache clear on her face.

“No—“ he means to snarl, but a sudden wail rings clear in the air. A baby's piercing screech: Heimdall's newborn girl.

Hope flares in his heart. Perhaps they could escape, Heimdall's boys. Perhaps there was enough time or a warning, the smallest slip of opportunity where they could escape before smoke filled their lungs or the collapsing roof buried their frail bodies.

Thor scrambles to his feet and as he rounds the house, he sees them. Heimdall's four boys are clutching their mother's skirt; even Heimdall's eldest, who boasted that he was almost a man grown and begged incessantly for archery lessons, buries his face close to his mother's warmth, whimpering softly. They look unharmed if shaken, but Thor soon realizes their mother does not try to comfort them. She is prostrated on the ground and her sweet round face is frozen in wordless terror. Tears run freely on her cheeks but in silence. Although she clutches her wailing infant daughter tightly against her chest, she does not try to calm her, only stares in wordless anguish towards the forest, ignoring the burning chaos that once was her home.

And finally, _finally,_ does Thor follow her gaze.

“Well met, Odinson,” the man calls with a smile.

 _You will know when you see him,_ his father’s words echo in his ears and yes, as Thor's eyes settle on white skin and black hair, he knows.

He stands tall against the forest, feet sunken deep in the snow, and at his feet, kneels Heimdall. The old soldier is bathed in blood and one of his eyes is swollen, almost closed but his gaze is not defeated.

Thor takes a step forward. There is something in the Liesmith’s eyes, some unspoken challenge or repressed hope but it slowly seeps away as Thor simply watches, searching for words that evade his wits. 

“Thor!” one of his friends yell and as one man they come to stand in front of him, weapons drawn. The man's upper lip curls in a sneer.

“I am Loki,” the Liesmith announces in a clear voice but Thor drinks it as if it was his only to take.  

 _Loki,_ he thinks. _I have come for your head._

“Your friends would use other words to name me: Liesmith, Trickster. I was even called Harbinger of Doom once,” the man laughs shortly, sharply. “Those were your words, Volstagg," he mocks," and they were poor ones.”

“You little—“ Volstagg snarls.

When Thor's hand falls on his friend's brawny shoulder in warning, the man's eyes slide back on Thor and as the prince takes a step forward, it is as if fire, rather than ice, shoots along his spine.

“Liesmith,” Thor says. “You have broken the peace of my realm.”

“I have,” he admits. “A tenuous and rotten peace, yes, but peace nonetheless.”

There is no remorse on the Liesmith’s face. The man blends beautifully with the black and white shades of the surrounding world, tall and handsome, although his elegance seems carved out of sharp ice and sharper madness. On his shoulders rests an heavy fur but his arms are shockingly bare, only protected by two rough leather vambraces that fit snugly around his sinewy forearms.

“My father the King has sent me to collect your head,” Thor says but his hand does not go to Thurmuth’s hilt.

“Are those reasonable words to throw at my face, prince,” the Liesmith only laughs, “when I hold one of your dear friends at my mercy?”

In his iron grasp, Heimdall groans in pain. Thor knows he stands no chance to rescue the soldier. Loki stands too far from him and his hold on Heimdall seems sure. His fingers are viciously fisted in Heimdall's hair, forcing the old soldier to expose his naked neck in a vulnerable arc. With the other hand, he holds a knife whose blade gleams grey and sharp against the tender skin of Heimdall’s throat. Thor could not take a step before Heimdall's life is forfeit.

“I will forgo my father's wishes and let you live,” Thor says, ignoring the gasps of his companions, “if you release my friend.”

Loki only raises an eyebrow at him.

“This is a good bargain you wish to strike,” he says and gradually the pressure of the blade against Heimdall's neck weakens until the old soldier can take deep, desperate breaths.

“Yes, a life for a life,” Loki continues pensively. “It sounds indeed like a fair trade.”

The blade against Heimdall's throat disappears completely and the tension in Thor's shoulders vanishes as quickly. He exhales slowly, taking a step forward to help Heimdall's on his feet.

“Thank you—“

“Ah, but any fair trade rests on careful assumptions, and yours, naive prince, are sorely biased if you think for one second that his life is anywhere as worthy as mine,” the Liesmtih hisses in a quick breath.

His face crumbles in a horrifying rictus as he clenches his jaw, twisting his arm. Thor understands too late the madness on the man's face and Heimdall's eyes grow wide just as the small pool of blood gathers on the grey cloth of his shirt.

The blade slips out with a slick sound out of Heimdall's back as the old soldier sags and crumbles to the ground before Thor can catch him despite his mad rush.

“Forgive me, my prince,” Heimdall rasps weakly when Thor turns him over, trying to assess his wound.

“Heimdall!” he hisses, shaking the old soldier in vain. There is a limpness to his limbs that reeks of death and the man's blood is warm against his fingers despite his desperate efforts to stop the flow.

The dagger lands before his eyes, staining the pure snow with gushing red.

“Loki,” Thor mutters as he looks up. The man's name is sweet on his tongue but he wishes he could retch.

“Thor,” the Liesmith says almost tenderly, “you must know that this is all for you.”

It is Sif who reaches Loki first. Her grey cloak billows behind her as she charges and her hood slips to reveal her coarse yellow hair. Roaring like any warrior, she swings her double-edged sword in a fierce arc but the man retreats, drawing two mean-looking short swords.

“Dear Sif,” the Liesmith drawls, “how lovely you look when you mean to kill me.”

“Be silent!” she howls and she engages him.

Thor cannot afford to watch their fight, not when Heimdall is slowly bleeding out in his arms but he’s far more used to inflict wounds than heal them. When Hogun drops to his knees next to him, he lets him take over his charge, relieved.

The bloody dagger rests innocently before his eyes and for an instant he does not believe it. The sounds of steel meeting steel, the grunts of the two opponents barely reach him while he picks up the weapon and turns it in his bloodied fingers. He knows this handle, the small notches that hurt his palm whenever he grips it too tightly. He knows the curve of the blade, how the light is reflected on its edge to reveal its sharpness. His fingers brush the delicate engraving. Those are the runes of his House. This is his dagger.

 _This is mine,_ Thor thinks as he looks up. Fandral and Volstagg have joined the fight and under the combined pressure of his companions, the Liesmith is overwhelmed.

He cleverly dodges Sif’s backhand lash, but he is too late to avoid Fandral’s hand which closes around his arm. His struggle to break free is vain and when Volstagg’s brawny hand collides soundly with his cheek, his head jerks under the violence of the blow. When he yells in pain, Thor’s hand tightens on his dagger but even if his lips are red with blood, the Liesmith’s eyes betray no fear, only hatred and defiance as he turns to face Thor’s friends.

“Too long have you caused despair and death but it ends today,” Sif snarls as she raises her arm.

 _She will strike him,_ Thor realizes. _And we will ride back victorious to my father’s hall, the snow will melt and I shall be king._

“Enough!” he roars, the words tumbling from his tongue long before his muddled brain orders his lips to move.

Sif’s arm falters with surprise and he takes advantage of her hesitation to catch her arm. Under his strength, she stumbles like a weak fowl.

Loki uses the moment of confusion to twist Fandral's arm, who cries out in surprise more than in pain and falls to his knees under the pressure, letting Loki scramble in retreat as he barely avoids the swing of Volstagg’s heavy warhammer with quicksilver reflexes.

“You have grown weak and slow,” Loki taunts as he wipes the blood that stains his lips with the back of his hand, “if the three of you cannot kill me.”

 _You fool,_ Thor thinks as he slips his dagger beneath the thick leather of his belt, _they will slay you with glee and yet you provoke them._

The hunger for blood has never so clear on his friends' faces. Never has he seen such hate twisting the elegant lines of Sif's features. He easily recognizes the tense line in Fandral's shoulders, the serious pursing of his lips. Volstagg is one breath away from charging, his telltale battlecry boiling low in his chest.

_They will come for you and shred you to pieces._

"I said enough!" Thor roars again and at last, he draws his sword. The Liesmith eyes it distastefully but says nothing, spitting blood on the ground.

“My lord,” Sif almost begs, straining under his hand.

“His head is mine to take. Or have you taken my father's words for your own?” Thor snaps, releasing her. “Know your place, commanders. You will not intervene.”

“Ah, you want my head,” Loki laughs, showing off his bloodied teeth. “But can you take it?"

“You stab my friend, you threaten my kingdom,” Thor growls. “You will find no mercy.”

Loki only smiles wider. “I expect none.”

“But I will make your death a quick one if you answer my question,” Thor says. “How did you come by that dagger?”

“I did not steal it if this is what you imagine,” the Liesmith says.

“You lie,” Thor snarls and steps forward, ignoring the edge of danger. “This is my weapon. How did you take it from me?”

“But I do not lie!” The Liesmith exclaims almost happily. “This dagger I accepted from from your hand, prince, and I am eternally grateful that it is your weapon that slew the Allfather's last obstacle.”

 _“_ You choose to mock my threats,” Thor says, drawing himself to his full height. “A painful death, so be it.”

He attacks.

The Liesmith does not flinch as even the most seasoned warriors do. No soldier stands collected as the Golden Prince of Asgard comes hurling at them. But this man, whose arms are well defined but far from strong, wearing neither armor nor mighty weapon, only spreads his feet, readying his stance for the assault. His eyes are calm and assessing, watching Thor charge towards him. 

 _A trap?_ The prince wonders but it is too late to change tactics and his momentum sends him barreling into his opponent just as Loki drops his two thin swords to the ground.

His sword falls on the Liesmith like thunder strikes the earth but Loki blocks it with his arm, catching the edge of the blade on his leather vambrace a breath before it cleaves his head. The man grunts under this onslaught, knees bending slightly to accompany the pressure, eyes closing tightly against the pain, but his arm holds fast, and Thor is fascinated. He knows his strength and such a blow would have shattered any armor, splintered a man’s spine like a twig, insuring an instant painless death. He knows. He has hacked thick wood and hay dummies with this arm. By all gods, the strike was enough to almost sever the thick neck of a _boar_.

 _You_ _should have died now by my hand,_ Thor thinks wildly _, and I would have gathered your broken body tight against mine and gone home. Have you not enough of this madness?_

The man's eyes snap open and they are feral. With his free hand, he grabs Thor's sword arm and his straight eyebrows clench in concentration.

Perhaps it is the familiar shift in the air or the lingering soreness in his body, but suddenly Thor knows.

 _He will slither under my arm and twist it. He knows that my shoulder is my weakness and the pain will force me to my knees,_ he thinks and on instinct, as the man initiates his clever sequence, Thor's free hand shots out to grab the man's throat, stopping his movement before they truly begin. Loki makes a wounded noise against his palm as Thor drags the man back to him.

They end up face-to-face, breathing raggedly the same air. Loki’s eyes are blown wide with honest surprise, and Thor sees the ragged tear in his lip where Volstagg's heavy blow landed.

 _I have you now,_ Thor's mind whispers, _enough of your mischief._

“I should have known,” Loki rasps around Thor's hand, his voice lost somewhere lost between a sob and a laugh. “You do learn.”

“What trickery is this?” Thor hisses, squeezing the man’s throat tighter despite himself. “My sword should have split you in half like a rotten apple and yet you block it with the flesh of your arm. You speak as if you know us and yet I have never seen your face before this day. Tell me, who are you?”

“There are many ways to fight,” Loki wheezes, writhing helplessly to alleviate Thor's grip, “even if in your mind there is but one.”

“ _Tell me_ ,” Thor commands, lip curling.

“It is too late for words, Thor, far too late,” he says, gasping desperately for air. “I will end this as Aesir do. With war and blood.”

His hands rise but instead of fighting against Thor’s hold on his throat as he expects, the Liesmith fits his hands against Thor’s cheeks. If Thor's mighty strike was thunder, then the touch of Loki's fingers against his face surely is lightning.

Thor fell into a lake in the middle of winter once. He thought he would never be warm again and since then he sleeps with an unused blanket folded neatly at the end of his bed. He thought he knew what cold meant when he dragged himself out of the biting water, or as he huddled with his fellow soldiers around the fire, lost in the deserts. But the cold he thought he knew is nothing like the man’s palms against his face. They might be gentle but they are like frostbite, like they reach deep beneath his skin to twist and pull at his nerves until they burst free and lie exposed and excruciating in the cold air.

It takes a second for Thor to realize the screams that he hears are his own and he wrenches away from Loki, releasing him to bury his own face in his hands. His fingers roam against his skin, expecting bloated blisters and oozing sores, blood and pus, but he finds only unbroken skin.

 _How?_ He raises his eyes and Loki is coughing and fighting for breath, bent in two, one hand resting on his knees, the other curling around his throat. 

“Thor!” he hears one of his friends, Fandral perhaps, and the Liesmith looks up warily. Their eyes lock for an instant, but there is nothing to decipher between them, no hidden messages or unspoken declarations, only plain suffering and incomprehension.

A hand lands on his shoulder, a voice in his ear, Fandral’s voice, yes. Sif, he realizes, Sif and Volstagg, too.

“Wait,” Thor grunts, surprised that his voice still comes out at all. He thought it frozen. “Wait.”

Loki straightens although his hand does not leave the tender bruised skin of his throat. His lip curls in a sneer as he contemplates Thor and his companions and he takes a step backwards.

 “No!” Sif yells and she lunges towards the Liesmith, weapon ready.

Before she can strike, a violent gust of wind and snow rise and she stumbles, raising her hand to shield herself against the vicious shards of ice slapping her face.

 _Wait,_ Thor thinks even if he knows in his heart that the mist will have taken him away, _Loki, wait._

_*_

The custom wants that anyone may come in the training grounds to watch the soldiers of Asgard perform their drills and it is rare that a citizen of Asgard sees his lifetime fly by without indulging in that beloved tradition. They may come and sit for a morning or an afternoon, even during a night if the weather is clement, to watch the training. Usually, one doesn’t choose a seat randomly but sits in the platform of the regiment where a brother or a son is enrolled. Girls often favor the platform of their sweetheart’s regiment. When Thor became commander of the front regiment, his platform stayed full for almost a week. And ever since, it has been the most frequented.

It is a custom that the people hold dear and it carries many stories: how once a woman disguised as a man brought the Warriors Three to their knees, one after the other, like clockwork, or how the mighty Thor, Prince of Asgard, challenged the God of War and won his title as first commander. Yes, there are many stories that people tell to entertain or to share moments of joy and companionship. But Thor knows that there is one story that is told more often that all the others and is kept covetously for slow nights, when all gather around a merry fire.

They say that once a foreign king came and sat in the highest row of the front platform. He chose his seat carefully, deciding on a hard bench with poor vantage but once he sat, he stayed unmoving for a month, watching the armies of Asgard unblinkingly. He learned their tactics; he learned their strengths and their weaknesses until he had memorized every face from the proud commanders of the nine regiments down to the most humble squires.

When a month had passed, the foreign king stood and left without a word just as a boy messenger came screaming and stumbling in the sawdust. The foreign king’s army was at the citadel’s gates, ready for blood and glory. On that day, the bells rang and the Aesir army went to war. The battle raged for seven days and seven nights but all the knowledge that the foreign king had hoarded could not save his army from the Aesir King’s might. The foreigners were defeated and crept back to their realm at the edge of the world.

That foreign king was of Jotunheim, the ninth realm. He came to Asgard as a friend and turned to snake after a month, drunk on ambition and jealousy. For his sins, he was killed in the battle and as he died, he cursed the line of the Aesir King, swearing that one day, the Blood of Ice would rule over the Golden Realm. Ever since, the Jotuns cower in their frozen homes and brew their revenge on the Aesir folk, or so old women tell their grandchildren when they’re too naughty. It happened centuries ago, so long ago that it has passed into legend, but Thor knows that it must hold some part of truth. After all, never has Jotunheim stood as an ally of Asgard, and the truce they share is shaky, done and undone with each generation. 

Yes, the custom invites anyone to watch the armies train.

 _Come and watch!_ It announces loudly, but anyone clever might also recognize its whispers: _Come and fear._

 

 

_*_

When his vision clears, he exhales slowly and goes to Heimdall.

“How is he?” he asks, pausing to sheathe his sword. As he kneels at the wounded man’s side, he spares a glance for Heimdall's broken family. His wife has not moved, only gathered her young children close to her bosom, comforting them but above all averting their gaze from their father's prone form.

“He may live,” Hogun answers. He has divested his heavy cloak and his arms are bright red up to his elbows. “But he will probably die before the day is out.”

Thor lays a hand on Heimdall's forehead and the man opens his eyes weakly.

“Courage, my friend.”

“My prince,” the soldier whispers brokenly. “He grew too strong and mad with—“ He gasps for breath. “Mad with pride. You— you must go to your father. Tell him— Tell him that Loki has broken free. Tell him—“

“Enough, Heimdall,” Thor interrupts, ears ringing. “Keep your strength.”

Hogun lays a restraining hand on Heimdall’s chest, eyebrows clenching imperceptibly in worry as Thor stands and surveys the chaos. There will be nothing to salvage from Heimdall’s farm, already gently reduced to a burning skeleton. The flames have abated and now burn low, content to savor the heavy beams like a dog would gnaw at a bone.

The ground is wet and muddy around the wreckage. It should be enough to slow the propagation of the flames to the nearby crops and trees and inevitably villages, but Thor hesitates; fire is nothing but treacherous and there is always a possibility for more destruction.

“Thor,” Hogun presses, “we must bring Heimdall back to the castle now or it will be too late.”

The imposing presence of the woods at his back is irresistible. The mist is long gone, but he can feel how shadows play in the corner of his vision, teasing him.

 _Look, look, golden prince,_ they sing to him. It calls to him. Even now when a friend lies bleeding on the ground amidst the ruin of his house, when unseen enemies threaten his kingdom, it calls to him.

In the end, it is almost easy.

“Go then,” Thor orders. “Make haste.”

Hogun gives him a heavy look but Thor has long learned to suffer them without flinching. Instead, he holds his friend's gaze steadily, daring Hogun to comment.

“Volstagg,” Hogun only says, “come and help me.”

Immediately Volstagg kneels next to him and together they start the delicate process of lifting Heimdall on Hogun’s complacent mount. Although Volstagg’s arms are steady and efficient, when Heimdall finally is settled, he is white with blood loss even if his moans of pain stay carefully kept behind his teeth. Hogun swings on his mount, sitting closely behind the old soldier to keep him balanced and apply pressure against the seeping wound. With a nod at Thor, he spurs his horse to a steady march followed closely by Volstagg, who stands ready to catch the injured man should he fall.

“Fandral,” Thor says, watching them ride away, “you will ride ahead to the castle to warn the healers of Heimdall's injuries, then you must come back with a party of your men to keep this fire under control.” He breathes deeply. “Sif, you will go with him.”

“My Lord,” she says, and her voice is as soft as it used to be when they were young and in love. “Thor, what will you do?”

“I have unfinished business in the woods,” Thor says and leaves it at that. 

“There is no time to waste. Without Heimdall to protect the city, the Liesmith—“ she chokes, “Loki will go straight for your father. You must make haste and—“

“Then, you’d better hurry, Lady Sif, and stand as my Father’s champion,” Thor cuts without bite.

 _Without Heimdall to protect the city,_ he repeats in his mind and the anger uncurls in him like a beast.

“Let me come with you!” Sif insists, eyes serious, tone almost desperate. “This is a foe you must not face alone. I know him, he would cheat with clever words and spin the truth—“

“You know him?” Thor hisses. Sif flinches, eyes growing wide in hesitation. “You _know_ him? Tell me, my friends, my companions of old, who is this man you know so well? What is it that you know and I so stubbornly ignore?”

Fandral and Sif clench their jaws, pained expression filtering on their face, but both remain willfully silent.  

“Tell me,” Thor commands, enraged by their silence. “If the sight of him make your heart boil with hatred, if it is his blood you so desire, if you do not trust my resolve to follow my Lord’s command, then tell me what you know!”

“I—“she stutters, “I— I cannot. Thor, you must understand, your father—“

“Enough,” he says, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “I have heard enough.”

 _Father_ , he thinks angrily, _what is it that you could not tell me? Why must you always keep me in the dark like an unworthy child? Am I not your heir, your first born, your only son?_

“Thor, I am begging you,” Sif implores, but Fandral comes to her, laying a hand on her shoulder to calm her.

Thor ignores her complaint and at his whistle his horse obediently trots to him.

“Your prince has given you his command,” he says as he swings in his saddle. “Dishonor be upon your houses if you choose to disregard it.”

It is almost a comfort to be engulfed in the moist darkness of the forest and leave his persistent friends behind him. They mean well, he tells himself. They love him and he loves them and he knows that they mean well, but there is relief in his heart as he rides along the familiar path that leads him deep into the forest. When he is sure that enough trees and distances conceal him from any lingering eyes, Thor allows himself to drag a weary hand across his eyes, leaving his stallion to guide himself.

Almost hypnotically, the slow rhythm of the horse careful steps brings the sharp blade of the dagger that he recklessly tucked in his belt to brush across the leather of his trousers, chafing the smooth surface with the dark promise of reaching skin.

 _I must be mad_ , Thor thinks helplessly behind the cover of his hand, _surely I must be mad._

_What else can it be?_

He is not dimwitted. He understands battle plans better than most, ever able to analyze when the odds are against Asgard's favor and how to best turn the tables. He has an undeniable flair for victory and enough cunning to counterbalance his recklessness. He may not like books or poetry like some men. He may prefer his entertainment to be ribald and mostly drunk rather than quiet and soft-spoken. He may not be the most eloquent or the cleverest, but he is strong and capable and sometimes painfully righteous.

But if it is not plain stupidity that explains the tumult in his mind, then there is no understanding. Surely, he must be mad. Perhaps this is the reason why no weapon would chose him, why no roast and no woman would satisfy him, why no hunt would appease him. A sick mind is unworthy and may not wield godly weapons. A sick mind, a mad mind, can find no peace where a balanced soul would find his happiness.

 _Is this it, Father mine?_ Thor wonders. _You knew your son was but a cripple, perhaps not in body but in soul, and you chose to hide me for years to bury the shame of such issue, keep me out of the Throne's reach to protect your kingdom? But if you knew of your son's limitations, why would you relinquish your title now, Allfather?_

There is a scream building up low in Thor's throat, frustration and rage blending together in a lethal combination, and he bites down on his tongue to keep it leashed. The scream he can contain, but not his fist which lands heavily on his thigh, spreading a dull ache through his leg. Under him, his horse starts, neighing with reproach, but Thor ignores the animal, too lost in his own dark thoughts.

The Liesmith, they called him, an enemy whose name Thor had never heard before. But he was alone in this predicament. Sif and Volstagg, the Liesmith Loki had recognized and named and he knew them well enough to rile them up with petty words.

 _Curse my temper. I should have kept Sif with me rather than send her away,_ Thor thinks. _She would have given me answers. I know she would._

 _Would she?_ A voice rings in his head, smooth and alluring, soothing Thor’s anger like the familiar touch of his mother would.  _Did they not conceal the truth from you? For how long have you been kept in the dark, Golden Prince? Would you still call them trustworthy?_

“Enough,” Thor snaps, and he is ashamed at how brittle he sounds.

They reach the clearing he knows so well, which looks even more pitiful and unremarkable covered in snow. It seems plainer, smaller and even more frustratingly irregular. The dead oak lying across the meadow is but a vague form, like a fresh corpse covered demurely by the purest shroud. He dismounts, unsteady for an instant on the shifting cover of snow and he takes a moment to collect himself, gripping the reins of his horse, but only a moment.

Thor only glimpses a flash of black dancing across the snow before the stoat pounces on him. He feels the tiny beast climb up his leg, claws sinking easily in the leather but only his momentum allows the beast to reach Thor's shoulder as his little claws scramble madly but uselessly against the metal of his armor.  

“Not today,” Thor says as the stoat curls himself around Thor's neck like an expensive fur, “I have no inclination for games.”

But the small beast's warmth is comforting against his neck and instead of dislodging the impudent animal Thor's fingers linger on his tiny head, stroking the white fur mindlessly.

 _You must know this is all for you,_ Loki whispered and there was no hatred for him in his eyes, only quiet resignation.

What enemy would look upon the Crown Prince of the realm he seeks to destroy and feel no hatred? Thor remembers the Liesmith’s hands on him, cold and harsh on his face, but they had not been aggressive or punishing. He only defended himself when his life had been between his hands.

“Come,” Thor mutters, “we must find him.”

The stoat tilts his little head and with a last playful nip on Thor’s throat he launches himself off Thor’s shoulders, bouncing across the field in great leaps. He almost disappears against the snow: only the black end of its tail glints almost blue in the sun. Thor’s advance is less graceful as he follows the stoat’s lead. The slope gets imperceptibly steeper and Thor’s breath becomes strained, his thighs burning under the effort, his armor weighing him down. Quickly his cloak becomes uncomfortable, too heavy and stifling and he wishes he wore his leather.  

The little stoat is bounding happily ahead of him, undeterred by the slope or the snow, and Thor almost envies his ease, the way his little paws leave no imprints.

Sometimes, the animal gets too eager and almost disappears from Thor’s vision.

 _Shall we take a break?_ The animal seems to tease when he turns back to look at Thor with far too much smugness until Thor increases his pace to catch up.

There is something rotten in Thor, in his heartbeat and in the tension in his guts. The forest is eerily beautiful in these parts in a dangerous and chaotic way. The trees are bending under the weight of the snow but Thor knows that no forester has ever tried to clear the vestiges of storms and decay.

The path grows narrow and slippery. His feet slips against the ice and he nearly falls to his death, only managing to grab a sturdy root a second before he tips over the cliff. After that, he walks closer the rugged stonewall.

His mind buzzes, heart beating erratically in his chest. There is the phantom ache of a blade against his neck and Thor’s hand fly to his belt, gripping tightly the dagger, searching for its reassuring solidity against his palm. The path turns sharply carving its way in a stony cliff, nearly a tunnel and the stoat disappears.

“Boy!” Thor calls weakly as he stops. “Wait, come back to me!”

 _Come back to me,_ Thor thinks, _so we can talk and laugh and kiss._

There is a bitter taste in Thor’s throat: apples and burning meat, smoke and lies. The wave of helpless hope that fills his heart leaves him too warm as if he were lying in his bed on a hot summer night when even the thinnest of coverlet would be stifling. It reminds him of long evenings when his mother used to spin her cloth and her stories and Thor would cling to the warmth of a familiar body against his own.

 _You will hate me as you should_ , the Liesmith’s voice echoes in his ears and Thor forces his feet to take another step. The snow crunches happily with each step but Thor cringes with each creak.

 _All will be well,_ he hears and his grip tightens around the handle of his dagger.

He reaches the turning of the path where it sinks in the stony cliff, almost creating a tunnel, and he holds his breath as he takes the final step and the path opens in front of him, spilling in a round clearing.

“I—“ Thor whispers as the world shifts under his feet, blown like ashes in the wind. “I don’t understand.”

 _Of course you don’t, foolish prince_ , a voice laughs.

A cottage stands at the edge of the clearing, imbedded snugly between the pines, rundown and utterly pitiful. Its roof is sunken under the unyielding weight of the snow. Its door stands ajar as an unspoken invitation, letting the cold settle in each corner. In front of it, there is a hearth. Thor knows that it should shelter a weak fire, burning brightly, cracking loudly as to convince itself of its worth, proclaiming its bravery and its will to survive.

 _Come then,_ Thor hears as a thousand echoes in his mind _, sit by the fire._

But there is no fire, weak or strong, burning in the hearth: nothing but ashes and grey snow. The small stoat has claimed a log in front of the fire and Thor can almost see the sharp outline of a figure sitting on it as if it were a golden throne.

“Where are you?” Thor says but there is no one to answer.

He advances and there is a promise of violence in Thor’s heart. 

“Show yourself!” Thor snarls, drawing his dagger, but the clearing stands still. Even the small stoat, usually fierce and always seeking mischief, remains immobile.

Thor has enough. With a growl, he stalks forward and his fingers close around the stoat’s frail ribcage.

“Why did you bring me here?” Thor asks. “To torment me? Am I mad?”

The stoat does not fight him and Thor is reminded of the day he first saw the small animal. He had wanted to kill it and bring it to his convalescent mother as a trophy but the stoat had showed courage and Thor had spared his tiny life.

“Why did you not run that day?” Thor says. “What purpose is yours?”

His mother had once spoken of stoat and their hidden purposes. As a child, he did not understand his mother’s words and he finds that he still does not understand.

 _Of course you don’t, foolish prince_ , and Thor has enough of false smiles and dangerous laughs.

“Am I mad?” Thor repeats, his mind lost in bouts of discussion, laughter and warm touches, and his fingers tighten around the stoat, whose heartbeat thunders under his palm but he feels smooth and cold skin rather than fur under his fingers; he aches for a pulse strong and true rather than fast and beastly. “What do you want from me?”

The white stoat watches him, eyes steely and affectionate.

 _My friend,_ Thor thinks and with a single swipe of his dagger he slits the stoat’s little throat. The blood splatters against Thor’s fingers, dripping soundlessly in the snow. It is soaked up eagerly like a thirsty child would suck his mother’s breast, standing vividly, almost too bright and vulgar for this black and white world.

The stoat does not fight and dies quickly curled in Thor’s bloody hand.

 _Come winter, the stoat names itself ermine and becomes brave,_ his mother explained many years ago. _The ermine, the white stoat, would sooner die than stain its coat to escape from hunters. Stoats face their foes proudly: they protect what they deem worthy and offer their life in return. They are prepared for sacrifice._ His mother paused, suddenly uncertain. _Do you see, my son? Do you understand?_

 _But Mother,_ Loki answered, always ready to argue, far too clever for his age. _What cause can be worthy of giving up your own life? Stoats are just foolish creatures._

And his voice was sure and so very young next to Thor.

 _Brother,_ Thor thinks and he remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't call PETA but feel free to tell me what you thought!


	4. Summer II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who like music, here's the companion to the summer part: [Listen](http://8tracks.com/thankgodforpandas/the-lords-of-summer-ii)  
> 

 

 

He is young again and his small bare feet thunder against the cold stones. He skits around the corner and with a precarious turn hides himself in a dark alcove to wait. He clamps his hands over his mouth to muffle his heavy breathing and almost immediately he hears loud footsteps. There is a muttered curse that betrays the master’s supposed unshakable patience and Thor snickers, crouching against the cold stone as another set of footsteps approach.

“You sent for me?” a voice asks and a wolfish grin breaks on Thor's face as he recognizes it. “Did you lose your prince again?”

“I swear he is worse than an eel,” the master says and Thor can almost hear how he wrings his hands worriedly together. “One instant of inattention—”

“Calm yourself,” the other man interrupts before his master can work himself into a frenzy. “Come, together we will find him.”

Thor waits patiently until their voices dwindle and their footsteps fade in the distance before he slithers out of his hiding place. After a careful inspection of the hallways, for he has learnt to be cautious and smart when it comes to escaping boring afternoons, he starts running again.

Entering the library always surprises him. It is as if the entire world shifts by stepping through a single door. From one moment to the other, the air grows thick and heavy and even the bravest rays of the sun cannot violate the gloominess created by rows and rows of high shelves filled with books and dust.

Thor has no affection for the library but he knows who has: his brother is bent over a small book and as usual he has ignored the comfortable armchairs that are carefully arranged for avid readers. Instead, he is perched on a sturdy wooden chair like a hawk. With one arm he holds his bony knees close to his chest while the other hand slowly turns the pages of an ancient looking book.

Thor wrinkles his nose. Sometimes, there is no understanding his brother.

“Loki!” Thor yells.

His brother does not jump in surprise: years of sudden ambushes by his older brother have tamed his nerves into submission.

“Again?” his brother only asks and resigned he conscientiously puts his finger to mark the line where he has been interrupted. “You know he will only go to Father and then—”

“Never mind that,” Thor laughs.

“Or worse,” Loki counters, “perhaps he will directly go to Mother.”

This makes Thor hesitate and Loki smiles, bending his head to resume his reading, but Thor is not so easily deterred.

“Enough with the reading!” he yells, grabbing Loki’s sleeve, laughing. “Come quick, the sun is still shining!”

He tugs and laughs all the more when Loki snaps his book shut and glares at him.

“Not today, brother,” Loki says, and he stands, tucking his book under his arm. Surely he means to leave and hide himself in some dark spot where he can be forgotten and collect dust like a statue. But again, Thor is not so easily deterred and apart from that, he is strong.

“Exactly, not today, brother,” he parrots and drags Loki to the door.

“Thor!” Loki yells. “Stop it! Let me go, you big oaf! I’ll come with you!”

Thor laughs only harder, still dragging his reluctant brother. “Oh no, I know how you play this game. You’ll vanish as soon as I let you go, won’t you?”

The pout that appears on Loki’s face is confirmation enough. “Ah! I knew it! Come now, it will be an adventure!”

“You always say that,” Loki whines, still trying to free his sleeve. “And it never is.”

Thor stops, suddenly uncertain. He glances looks jealously at the book still tucked under his brother’s arm but Loki averts his eyes.

 “Truly? You would rather spend the afternoon with books than me?”  

 “Thor! And you too, Loki!” a voice explodes. Their heads swivel in unison as their masters appear at the end of the hallway.

“Ah, we are found, but not yet lost!” Thor cringes. “What do you say, brother?”

Loki stares for a moment at Thor’s hand, where it still grips his sleeve tightly and when his eyes finally reach Thor’s, they’re full of mischief.  

“Shall we make them chase us?” he asks. Thor grins and they decamp together in the hallways leaving their laughs to echo long after they are gone.

They run fast, cleverly dodging the passing servants and breezing past the stationed guards, and Thor is proud to see how his brother does not falter despite his shorter legs; even when his breathing becomes labored whereas Thor could still run for ages, Loki only frowns in concentration and silences his complaints. Thor might forget it often, but despite his quiet and delicate nature, Loki is stronger than he looks.

“This way,” Loki says and this time, it is Loki who grabs Thor’s sleeve to drag him through a hidden door. They burst out in a back alley of the citadel and the sunshine blinds Thor for an instant.

“I did not know this passage,” Thor huffs, raising his hands to shield his eyes.

“Of course you didn’t,” Loki pants. He is bent in two, hands resting on his knees. “But I did.”

Thor waits until his brother’s breathing has slowed, kicking pebbles in the dirt. When Loki finally straightens, his black hair is wild on his head, glinting almost blue in the sun and his cheeks are red from exertion.

“Well,” Loki says, “what adventure did you have in mind for today?”

Thor hesitates. He had none really. Adventures always have a way of finding him but under his brother’s expectant gaze, Thor improvises.

“Come with me,” Thor says, choosing to avoid the marketplace. It would be packed with peasants, merchants and citizens. The Princes of Asgard would never make their way unseen. Instead, he makes for the gardens.

“Hail, my princes,” Iðunn greets with a soft voice as soon as they enter her gardens. With a playful laugh she throws two of her soft, radiant apples and Thor rushes forward to catch them. It is a little tradition between Iðunn and him. Despite her fearsome reputation, they tried to steal two of her prized possessions. They said that no one could steal from her. They said that if you tried, she would steal your soul in revenge. Of course, they saw it as a challenge.

She appeared behind them like mist and the impossibly sweet fragrance of her orchards as soon as they tried to climb a tree, but before they could scramble for their lives in panic, she threw her head back and laughed.  

“My princes,” she said with a fond gaze. “You need only ask.”

She threw them two apples. Too surprised, Thor caught only one, letting the other roll in the dirt. When he saw Iðunn’s forlorn eyes and Loki’s embarrassed scuffle before he picked up the fallen sibling, rubbing it against his sleeve gingerly, Thor never missed the second apple.

“Thank you,” Loki says to the mistress, accepting the apple Thor hands him.

She smiles and waves them off as they sink into the sanctuary of her orchards. Thor bites into his fruit, bright gold and plump, and as its flesh yields under his teeth, the juice explodes thick and sweet against his tongue. He gives his brother a sticky smile when Loki’s raw moans of appreciation resonate like an echo in Thor’s own ribcage.

Soon they smuggle themselves through the gates, which release them from the citadel into the expanse of the wilderness. At first, they wander along the road but the heat is relentless under the afternoon sun so they leave the gravel path to sink in the fields and seek the riverbank where the water can give them some relief.

The farmers have built stacks of hay in the fields, left to dry in the sun and to be picked up later, and the cut straws crunch under their feet, shining almost like gold under the bright sun. The country is bathed in warm hues, gold and orange and warm brown, green too where the farmers have left their fields to rest for a year. The river flows sluggishly as if the heat made the flow lazy. 

Loki is telling him something about his lesson but Thor is only half listening, more interested in the sounds of the fields, all crisp barley and warm breeze than the intricate schemas that his brother is drawing in the air. Thor knows he belongs to this land with his hair like the fields of barley and eyes like the river but does his brother? How dark and stern he looks against the warmth of the land. His white skin and black hair are lost in the golden glow as if the country was trying to erase his unnatural coloring. Only his green eyes stand out, but they are nothing like the fat grass. They remind Thor of moss and mist.

“Are you even listening to me?” Loki says in a reproachful tone.

Thor laughs. “I am not, brother, and ever for good reasons!” he says and he throws his arms in the air. “Leave your lessons behind!”

“You will live in a narrow world if you never learn,” Loki chides.

“Ha!” Thor shouts and he lets himself fall in the hay. “But it will never be a boring one!”

The straws are sharp and somewhat uncomfortable against his back and he knows the skin of his neck will soon itch like the devil but the hay smells clean and sunny. He sighs happily.

“You promised me an adventure,” Loki mutters and he sits petulantly next to Thor, hugging his knees tightly with his arms as he did in the cool library.

“But it is one,” Thor says with optimism. “Long will mortal heroes sing of your courage when you, Loki Odinson, forwent an afternoon of studying for one of idleness!”

Loki snorts but he stays stubborn, only nuzzling his nose against his knees as if it were itching.

“Come, lie down,” Thor teases. “You will enjoy it.”

With a sharp tug, he topples his younger brother in the hay, making him squeal in surprise. Even if Loki is weaker, he never lacked courage and with a growl, he pounces on Thor until they are fighting in the hay, biting and shrieking and cursing. When they break off, they are both panting with exertion and laughter, and Thor has his brother neatly pinned in the hay. The struggle has raised reddish spots on Loki’s cheeks, and his dark hair is spread out in the hay, buried in the golden straws.

 _Is this how he would look if he was more like me?_ Thor wonders uneasily. _With golden hair and tanned skin?_

How would it have turned out if his brother were less striking in his differences? For all their lives, people have turned their heads and watched his brother with interest and curiosity, sometimes even with barely veiled distrust. He was different, with skin too white and hair too dark to stand among Aesirs and blend with them. He could never be forgotten, no matter how quiet and unassuming he became. He was a Prince of Asgard, forever to suffer under the scrutiny of his people, exposed to their gazes and judgment.

It has always been a part of his brother, this radical difference, and now as he watches the golden straws cover his brother’s black strands, he finds the image disturbing. He cannot imagine it: his brother like anybody else, blond and tall and strong. What if his brother had been more like him? Often he wished for it when his brother scoffed at Thor’s adventures, sneered at his friends or dismissed his beloved games and fights. But now, as yellow overshadows the black in his brother’s hair, he finds that he does not want it.

Thor forces a laugh and slowly, systematically, removes the straws from his brother’s hair.

“Well, brother,” Loki says. “Now I will never be called Loki of the Golden Hair.”

“That title already belongs to Sif,” Thor answers, sliding his fingers through the dark hair to dislodge the last stray hay straws. “She would give you a good trashing if you tried to take it from her with your hay-like hair.”

“She would give _you_ a good trashing if she knew you compare her hair to hay,” Loki snorts. “Sif of the hay hair, that would be a pleasant sight.”

Thor laughs and he stretches back on the ground, close to Loki, silent and immobile until the crickets have forgotten all about them and resumed their noisy chirping.

“You were right,” Loki says after some time. “This is a good way to spend an afternoon.”

 

 

*

 

 

He retches in the snow for a long time, bile like acid in his throat leaving a sour taste in his mouth. He can do nothing but submit to the heaving of his stomach, helpless against the rebellion of his body, the tight coiling of his entrails and the burning throb in his eyes.

 _Brother,_ Thor thinks, fingers twisting in the snow, _Loki._

The stoat's little body has grown stiff and cold where it lies on the snow, white against white but for the red gash in his throat. Thor gags at the sight of his tiny milky eyes and weakly he shuffles away but when he tries to stand, he finds his arms too shaky and he collapses face down in the snow. It’s cold and neutral against his face, almost soothing. He buries his face in the coldness, closing his eyes for peace but images stream behind his eyelids, blinding him like the flickering stripes of light between moving leaves, thousand images burning his eyes and his memories.

There is a young man, tall and lank, watching him unblinkingly from the edge of the forest while he and his friends train in the reaped fields of barley. Thor wants to approach him, drawn by his height or his unfamiliar coloring, he cannot tell. He hails him, trying for the grin his friends never seem to resist, but the boy - he looks like a boy, all long lines and sharp angles, nothing like Thor’s brawn- flitters away like a frightened bird or a shy mouse.

“You should be careful,” Sif tells him when he makes this remark to his friends. “Mice carry diseases.”

There is a young man, tall and lank, watching him unblinkingly from the edge of the forest while he and his friends train in the reaped fields of barley. Thor wants to approach him, drawn by his height or his unfamiliar coloring, he cannot tell. He offers him water.

He offers him an orange, but the boy - he looks like a boy, all long lines and sharp angles, nothing like Thor’s brawn- flitters away like a frightened bird or a shy mouse.

There is a young man, tall and lank, watching him unblinkingly from the edge of the forest while he and his friends train in the reaped fields of barley. Thor catches him before he can flitter away like a frightened bird of a shy mouse. His arm is thin and bony under his hand, the spun cloth of his shirt rough and dirty. Before Thor can speak, the boy slaps him and although he keeps silent, the snarl, the vicious curl of his lip, is testimony enough of any words that could be said.

There is a young man— There is his brother, crouched on the ground of the forest, drawing stories in the dirt under Thor’s directions until they laugh and squeal at their own cleverness, ignoring the night and the dangers. There is his brother kneeling next to him on the ground.

“Thor!” he cries again and again, eyes wet with tears, hands drenched with blood. “Thor!”

Loki’s hands are almost more painful than the boar’s tusks as they work feverishly to pull his spilled insides back in his belly and to repair him. There are spells and runes on his lips and Thor is dying but he is fascinated. He is reborn and when he tries to raise his hand to cup the man’s cheek in gratitude, the man catches it and presses a kiss on his palm, hot and wet and reverent.

Thor prances on the gravel road, surrounded by his friends, Sif to his left, Fandral and Hogun behind him, and when he glances to his right, the massive figure of Volstagg is there, tall and broad and tangible despite Thor’s slight catch in his step. When he cranes his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of what must lie behind him, Volstagg slaps his back and tells a joke.

Thor glances at his right and there’s Loki.

“Hurry!” he squeals and together they run to join their father. They will see the bridge today and Thor can barely smother his anticipation. His father never lets them approach the bridge but an ambassador from Svartálfaheimr is coming and the sons of Odin must be present. Anything else would be insulting. He even wore his formal clothes without putting up a fight. He will see the bridge!

Thor glances at his right and when Volstagg grins at him, Thor shoves him away. But there’s no one behind his friend, only the sneering faces of soldiers, the pointing fingers of small children, quickly ushered behind their mother’s skirt.

They hunt for the first time and he strides recklessly through the forest, watching with wide eyes the wonders of intricate foliage, discovering the unknown sounds and smells of trees and rotten leaves. He falls to his knees and presses his hands to the dirt, relieved when they leave clear imprints in the soil.

The rug is rough under Thor’s cheek but still he tries to fight the rising hold of sleep, curling around the warmth of a familiar body against his own.

“You must,” his mother tells him.

 

When the flood of images abates to a slow trickle, he stands wearily but his head is pounding as if he took a nasty blow to the temple and he sways, willing his stomach to settle. He takes a few halting steps and easily finds the small cache where Loki stocks water and his meager reserves of food.

 _The water freezes if you leave it above ground. There is no respite from the wind in these woods,_ Loki once explained, _the earth keeps it warm._

Thor raises the jug to his lips and rinses his mouth, spitting on the ground, but the bitter taste does not abate. It reeks of betrayal and weakness, leaving him reeling with anger and fear even if he tries to drown it down. The water is cool in his mouth, a blessing for his abused throat, but he wishes for something stronger but he knows— he _knows_ that Loki was surviving more than living in his cottage; there was no place for comfort or indulgence in sweets or spirits.

Thor covers his mouth with one hand and his vision blurs. A thousand images flicker before his eyes, witness of a thousand discoveries. He knows this place. He knows where Loki used to sit while waiting for him, he knows where he hid his food and where he could find drinkable water. He knows Loki's habits, how he would seek the heavy furs of his bed only when his fingers shuddered with the cold and he could no longer hold his beloved books, how sometimes he sparked the fire with a flick of his fingers when it grew too weak and risked to be smothered under the snow but how he would never waste wood if he thought he could tolerate the cold for one hour more. He remembers how Loki sighed as Thor brought yet another chicken, pouted and complained while it cooked, but ate it nonetheless, half starved although the meat scalded his tongue.

 _I am thoroughly sick of chicken, bring me a duck tomorrow,_ Loki repeated day after day and Thor always said yes. But day after day, Thor watched without understanding as his brother’s eyes dimmed and gently lost their warmth, as his brother’s smile grew more and more dangerous when Thor always, day after day, retrieved the chicken from his satchel.

“I am Loki,” the man said countless times. Again and again, he indulged Thor’s ignorance and unwitting cruelty until one day his eyes grew hard and he kept his name for himself.

Thor has been here a dozen, a hundred times before, he knows this clearing by heart, but his mind still rings with the memory of a dozen, a hundred discoveries. How many times has he stumbled upon the clearing like a lost foal, eyes widening in childlike wonder at the sight of snow and of this man with hair too black and skin too white? How many times has he hesitated between reaching for Loki’s hand or for his axe? How many times has he lunged for his brother intent on blood and violence only to have his arm behind his back and be thrown to the ground like a novice? How many times has he rested at the edge of a log wondering what madness could have conjured such a man, the wraith, the apparition, the thief, the Liesmith, the Wintersmith? He invented a dozen, a hundred names, but he never called the man brother. Loki, the constant companion of his childhood, his only brother, he could no longer recognize.

 _What have you done to me, Loki?_ Thor wonders and the jug cracks under his fingers. _Why?_

A shaky breath escapes Thor’s lips and the muscles in his chest tighten, hurt and burn, like an omen of a thunderstorm.

“You watched me, brother,” he whispers to the cold air. “Each day, you watched me stumble in your clearing, half-crazed. You gave me water and let me rest by your fire but you watched me and did nothing. You kept your name and your secrets, and did nothing.”

The jug flies from his fingers before he realizes he has thrown it, landing on the ground, soundlessly, its fall cushioned by the snow.

“Your promises mean nothing here where snow is the only ruler,” Loki told him often. “Words are gone with the night wind and you would betray your vow with the morning sun.”

 _Yes,_ Thor understands finally, _always you sent me back to my furs, brother, like a dimwitted lamb._

The rage in his chest is familiar, too familiar. This is the rage that has punctuated his life, each day from dawn to dusk until he collapsed in his bed too exhausted to think. He neglected his title; he disregarded his duties and his friends in favor of the hunger in his heart. He sought to assuage it, to satisfy this rage and this debilitating hunger that he could not explain.

And Loki watched him in silence and with a mean smile, watched and watched and _watched_ and did nothing while Thor yearned. Yes, he yearned, he yearned for—

It is like a slap of a vexed girl, the biting cold of stones under his bare feet when he leaves his bed on winter mornings, the shame of a wrong answer or the rush of a victory. He almost trips over his own feet in his haste to reach the cottage’s door, which stands open as it always does.

 _I’d rather have it open,_ Loki laughed when Thor once tried to repair the hinges so it would close. _It will not keep this room warm. The wind would simply blow through the walls. Let me keep the light and bear the chill._

Thor bursts through the door and he jerks to a stop as he sees it, as he sees her, only her. He takes a few drunken steps and falls to his knees. She is here, leaning humbly against the wooden wall. As when he found her in Jotunheim, she is abandoned and a thick layer of dust conceals the gold thread of her handle and the runes that adorn her flanks.

 _“_ Mjölnir,” Thor says in a voice that betrays worship and love. She is silent but her power hums, focused and full of intent. It fills the room until the pressure grows unbearable and Thor is left with no choice. He reaches out.

 

 

*

 

 

The custom wants that anyone may come in the training grounds to watch the soldiers of Asgard perform their drills. It is a custom that the people hold dear and it carries many stories: how once a woman disguised as a man brought the Warriors Three to their knees, one after the other, like clockwork, or how the mighty Thor, Prince of Asgard, challenged the God of War and won his title as first commander.

The custom is a lie.

Anyone may come in the training grounds and watch the soldiers of Asgard perform their drills but if they come, it is only to see their prince, the broken boy, the _weapon-forsaker_.

No wonder Thor’s platform was ever the fullest. He thought it love and admiration when it was only morbid curiosity that led them there. They wanted to see him, the boy who once had been a God but was now content to play with wooden toys. The hunched figures of mothers clutched their infants tighter to their breast. _Pray the Gods that my son has a better fate_ , they whispered. The eager eyes of recruits followed him closely. _If he’s so strong despite his broken soul,_ they snickered, _I can do it too._

His father invited their allies, their enemies, anyone who would come.

 _The House of Odin is strong_ , his father proclaimed. _See, watch, the line is not broken._

The custom is a lie and Thor danced like a puppet to an unknown song, day after day, wondering in his heart why no weapon would take his hand. He wondered as Loki sat in the highest row of the front platform for months, wrapped in a black coat and magic that concealed in face, silent and hunched. Thor waved for each bout he won, proud when he should have been ashamed, happy when he should have been angry. He waved and the crowd indulged the simpleton with good-natured cheers.

Yes, the custom invites anyone to watch the armies train. _Come and watch!_ It announces loudly, but anyone clever might also recognize its whispers. _The House of Odin will not fall._

 

 

*

 

 

Mjölnir fits in his hand as if she never left it, as if the years of separation and oblivion did not count, but there is an edge of mistrust and despair in Mjölnir’s power, a thirst for revenge and retribution.

Thor raises his weapon gingerly in his hands. She is not changed, still sleek and beautiful, coveting thunder and power deep in her heart but she stays mute, only humming under his fingers.

 _Sing to me, my sweet,_ Thor implores, but Mjölnir keeps her silence, too cautious and heartbroken to trust him. He warms the metal under the palm of his hand, trying to coax her out of her muteness but she stays stubborn. Thor closes his eyes, concentrating on the intricate threads of gold and steel of Mjölnir’s handle under his hand. 

 _You kept her from me,_ Thor thinks. _How could you be so cruel, brother?_

Thor takes a long look at the room. He sees the bare walls and the dirty floor that he so often sneered at, wondering why any man would be willing to live in such insalubrity.

 _My mother,_ Loki often explained when Thor glared at the stacks of books. _She loves me still, despite it all. She wanted me to have these comforts and I could not refuse her._

His fingers unconsciously linger on the exhausted tallow candles and the withered parchments littering the table. He often asked Loki about the strange scriptures crowding the papers, and Loki told him as thousand stories as explanation. Thor laughed and dismissed each of them, judging them as jest and madness, but he recognizes it now, the truth underlying the mischief and inventions. His brother never strayed far from the truth, although he concealed it under layers of vague overtones and childish words.

 _These are words of magic, huntsman,_ he used to say, _words of curses and deliverance, of love and punishment._

The bed stands like a throne in the room and it burns Thor’s eyes, leaving a trail of lust and shame in his belly. The draft carries the sounds of his brother’s breathless laughter as they wrestled on the riverbank and his brother’s moans echoing with Thor’s shallow thrusts. 

 _Keep it safe,_ Loki panted in his ear. _Guard it close to your heart._

The stench of nausea fills up his throat and he sways. 

When Thor first kisses his brother, Loki punches him.

Loki freezes for a breath, enough that Thor can fit his mouth carefully against the shape of Loki’s lips, enough that he can taste the smoke on his brother’s tongue, feel the coarse skin of his chapped lips, before he flails, letting his fist fly to catch Thor’s nose.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, scrambling away like a frightened animal.

Thor glares, clutching his nose, trying to contain the flow of blood. He thought it a good idea. The man was too enticing. Even now, with his cheeks stained by a dark blush and eyes blown wide, the Trickster is too enticing. Thor finds he wants to kiss him again, unwrap his cold body from the folds of his cloak and cover it with his own until the warmth of their skin meets and merges.

Thor grins. A bloody smile perhaps, but he doesn’t care. He stands and Loki does not retreat when Thor approaches to cup his neck.

“You’re beautiful,” Thor tells him as if it explains everything. Maybe it does.

He kisses Loki’s temple. He means it to be just one kiss, a soft invitation for more, but Loki’s cheekbone is too inviting and he drags his lips until they rest on the sharp bone. When he pulls away, the pale skin comes away red with blood and Loki’s eyes are wide and horrified.

When Thor first kisses his brother, Loki punches him and the irony of it was lost to Thor for far too long.

Thor opens a door with that kiss; one he does not understand or even sees, but it is one that they cannot close: the hunger in his belly is raging and he finds that he goes for his axe less and less, eyes narrowing on the sharp line of the man’s jaw rather than the signs of danger.

After Thor’s ill-fated advance, days or months later, when he finishes to build a small shelter for the fire wood – Thor is no builder and it looks crude, almost childishly assembled, but it will do the work well enough and keep the precious wood dry and ready to be burnt – he collapses on the log, accepting gratefully the flask that the Liesmith hands him. He called his brother Liesmith on that day, there was something twisted in the set of his mouth, like lies and resignation. He accepts the flask but is surprised when Loki comes with it, gliding to Thor, until he settles on his lap, heavy and snug against his groin. The Liesmith tilts Thor’s head, guiding the flask to his lips, watching avidly as wine spills and runs down the length of Thor’s throat. Loki lets his mouth follow the stray beads lazily until he allows another kiss, catching Thor’s hands, pining them on his thighs before they can wander.

“This cannot be,” Loki breathes raggedly against his lips when he breaks it off.

“Why? You would enjoy it,” Thor rasps, trying for arrogance to cover the shortness of his breath.

“Yes,” Loki smiles, “but you would resent me.”

The Liesmith shakes his head sadly, dismissing his own words before Thor can protest.  

“This cannot be,” he repeats, stroking Thor’s hair. “How could I bear it tomorrow?”

The first raindrops of rain, sliding like tender fingers through his hair, stroking the lines of his face reverently like a long-lost lover, bring him back to himself but it takes him a moment to realize he stands amidst the wreckage of the cabin, Mjölnir held loosely in his fingers.

 

 

*

 

 

It is Loki’s fault. But then, it usually is.

It is the height of summer and Asgard’s nobility had gathered for the midsummer feast. The sun has yet to set and Thor is already drunk. The food is good, the ale even better. Surrounded by his friends, Thor is too young and proud to show restraint. Yes, the night is young, so is Thor and only discussion has flown more freely than the ale. For hours, the hall of his Father has been filled to the brim with laughter and the joyful hubbub of a thousand discussions.

Or it was, only a few minutes ago. Now, the guests have all fallen silent. Even Volstagg relinquished his hold on the cheese plate and is listening avidly to the only power able to command such attention. The Allfather is telling a story.

It is a rare occasion although many evenings at Odin’s table are spent in the careful retelling of stories, new or old, merry or sorrowful, true or fanciful, and so when the Allfather rose, the silence spread like a disease in the Great Hall. Thor understands their awe. His father is nothing but a master of pomp and circumstances. He stands tall and impressive up on the dais and the lights of his hall shine golden on the embroideries of his ceremonial attire and the sleek lines of Gungnir, leaning almost innocently against a pillar behind him as a simple but careful reminder of the Allfather’s strength.

It may be rare for most and hold them in awe, but Thor has spent half his life listening to his father’s counsel and wise words. The story chosen by the Allfather is long and even if it is Thor’s favorite, he has decided long ago that only his mother could recite the Hammer of the Gods properly.

Thor may be bored but his friends look shamelessly engrossed. Hogun has closed his eyes to concentrate better on the flow of the story while Fandral and Sif have turned their back to him in their obvious fascination of the king’s story. Only his brother shows some restraint, Thor notes with satisfaction. Seated at his right, Loki is watching their father unblinkingly behind his folded hands. Although he seems enraptured in his father’s grandiose tale, his brother’s straight eyebrows are twisted in thought, his eyes hard with calculations, and without a doubt, there is mischief brewing somewhere in that brain.

Thor’s gaze sweeps across the table and he sighs again. The bowl of grapes is too far, completely out of his reach, and he would raise his brother’s suspicion long before he could commandeer the bowl of fruits and attack. They used to play that game endlessly as boys, when banquets they begged to attend grew unerringly tiresome. Thor learned more about careful planning and battle strategies by throwing grapes at his brother and evading his cunning counterattacks than by reading withered reports of already grizzled warriors.

He looks at the bowl longingly. They are not called boys anymore, at least not to their faces. They have grown tall and although Thor’s muscles have not quite filled the width of his shoulders yet, their skills are not those of children anymore. Still, Thor is bored and, if nobody else will oblige, he will be the provider of his own amusement. The easiest way would be to ask Volstagg for the damn fruits but his brawny friend would sooner swear off food and women than do so silently and the effect of surprise is priceless in the declaration of hostilities. Perhaps a careful drag of the tablecloth or a meaningful nudge to a passing servant could resolve the matter.

So lost he is in his planning that he does not immediately notice how his brother’s eyes have shifted and narrowed on him. There is a warning in them but Thor ignores it, choosing to only see the amusement as if his brother knew exactly what Thor was planning.

The hall erupts in cheers as the Allfather concludes his story and as one man, the assembled guests raise their cups to toast their liege-lord. If Thor’s own call comes a second or three too late, only Loki seems to notice, snorting in his cup, before Fandral and Sif turn back to face him, eyes shining with ambition.

“I wish such a weapon could choose me,” Sif says with a heavy, almost dreamy sigh. It is an unfamiliar sight on her face that knows only resolve and defiance.

“Be careful with your wishes,” Hogun says calmly. “This mighty weapon might bring more woe than power.”

“Must you always be so reasonable?” Sif presses. “Imagine its strength yours to wield, its destruction yours to command, we could be immortal! I would give all my gold if it could grant me that weapon.”

“All your gold? You would do well to listen to Hogun’s warning,” Loki says softly, twisting one strand of his black hair between his fingers. “Or it could cost you dearly.”

“Come,” Thor chides before Sif can snap back. “The hammer is never to be found, lost forever as she fell. I would never waste my life chasing something that can never be mine.”

“Allow us to dream,” Fandral sighs and his friends fall in quiet contemplation of their cups, suddenly lost in their thoughts until his brother’s laugh breaks the silence.

“The hammer is not lost,” Loki says. “She lies in the wastelands of Jotunheim where even the Jotun dogs cannot bear to live. Anyone can reach for Mjölnir, where she rests, unguarded and unclaimed. Any man, peasant or king, or woman,” Loki adds, nodding with a smile to Sif whose eyes glint with desire, “may extend their hand to seize the Godhammer and make her their own.”

“There is no glory in wielding a weapon that a blacksmith could confuse with his own tool,” Thor scoffs, taking a generous swig of mead. “I am Prince of Asgard. Why would I bend down to pick up a weapon that anyone could pluck more easily than blackberries in the forest?”

A careful smile settles on Loki's face but Thor has drunk far too much to grow weary. “Yes, anyone may try his hand and seduce her but few have tried. Only the worthy may lift Mjölnir’s gilded handle,” Loki pauses and he levels a considering glance at Thor. “You need courage to achieve mighty feats, but it takes true bravery to try your hand, knowing that you could fail.”

 _What would you do, brother?_ Loki seems to ask, and Thor buries his face in his tankard.

“How do you know she lies in Jotunheim?” Hogun asks. “The story only says that she fell when the Elven Kingdom was destroyed.”

Loki leans forward eagerly. “You think you know the whole story—“

“I could recite the Hammer of the Gods backwards without blinking,” Thor interrupts stubbornly.

There is glint in Loki’s eyes and too late does Thor realize the foolish opening he has given to his brother.

“Yes, but you lack curiosity,” Loki says. “There are always things that you ignore, Thor. Allow me to demonstrate.”

He clears his throat and his eyes glow warmly in the soft light.

“There is a weapon that no one dares to touch,” his brother begins and although the beat of the feast has been rekindled, their corner of the table remains willfully silent. After all, only Loki has a talent for storytelling that may compete with the Allfather’s. “They say that the Elves needed centuries to forge her and tame the thunder of her heart when they carved it from the fallen star. I say that this is a lie.”

“Ah!” Volstagg shouts. “I knew it would be grand.”

“Hush, my friend,” Thor says, intrigued by his brother’s overture. “Let us hear the lie my little brother has invented to entertain us.”

Loki brushes invisible lint off his sleeves, ignoring the interruption.

“It was not the Elves, but the Dwarves who forged the hammer in the unknown depths of the earth, where the ground melts like liquid fire and the air is but sooth and smoke,” Loki says, voice barely audible over the roar of the feast. “She was commissioned by an arrogant prince destined to be a great king, who would accept only the mightiest of weapons to grace his hand. The Dwarves say it was the most terrifying weapon ever created, so powerful and selfish that only her intended could ever be worthy of lifting her.”

“Who was the prince, Loki?” Sif asks breathlessly.

Loki’s face splits in a sly smile. “The Allfather, of course.”

“You jest!” Thor cries. “See, this is one lie that we can easily uncover—”

“I do not lie,” Loki argues. “I collected the story from the Dwarves themselves.”

“The Dwarves are but liars and thieves,” Sif says. “You know that, Loki.”

“They will trade you the truth,” Loki says calmly. “For the right price.”  

Thor narrows his eyes. “How do you explain Gungnir, then?”

“The Dwarves forged Gungnir long after the hammer,” Loki tells him. “It is a replacement for what our father has lost. A extraordinary replacement for sure, but a replacement nonetheless."

“You’re spinning lies again, Loki,” Thor protests, glancing at his father wearily. “How could I not know of this?”

“Must you always doubt me?” Loki says impatiently. “You may choose to be blind but I have seen the truths our father would rather conceal.”

“This is nonsense,” Thor counters, and Sif nods with him. "I will—”

“Come, Thor,” Fandral argues for the first time. “If there is some juicy tale about our righteous ruler that may finally besmirch his gracious reputation, then I want to hear it. You may judge afterwards if your brother deserves a trashing for his lies.”

“A warrior abandons his weapon upon his death only or he can no longer be called a warrior,” Thor says stubbornly. “Do you not realize the insult that you direct at our father?”

“She was not abandoned,” Loki replies patiently, almost fondly and his voice shifts like expensive cloth to accommodate the sudden turn in the story. “She was most cruelly torn from her valorous wielder. It begins with a war, a terrible war—“

“Oh good,” Volstagg laughs, settling his hands on his belly in the universal position of comfort and satiety. “I have always liked those.”

A smile tugs the corners of Loki's lips but he does not lose the flow of the stories.

“Yes, a _terrible_ war,” Loki even stresses obligingly for Volstagg. “We were not born when Jotunheim declared yet another war on Asgard. Refusing to recognize his defeat, the Spellcrafter King relentlessly persecuted the borders of Asgard. Death and destruction he wrought until my father could tolerate it no more and had to gather his armies to march on Jotunheim.”

Loki smiles faintly. “He need not have bothered to muster his entire troops, however, for his victory was swift. The superiority of Asgard was overwhelming. Aesir warriors fought like demons and although Jotuns had made the people of Asgard bleed for centuries, they were defeated in a single night.”

 _This is nothing new,_ Thor wants to say but his brother is peaceful when he tells stories, when all are quiet and follow the rhythmic lilt of his voice, and Thor hesitates a moment too long, loath to disrupt this tenuous balance.

“They say that it was the swing of Odin’s hammer, which lead the battle, that with each swipe of the King’s arm, dozens, hundreds, thousands of enemies fell,” Loki pursues. “Nothing could withstand the thunder of Mjölnir’s heart. Nothing could resist the Allfather’s fury. Under this assault, the Jotun King turned his tail and fled.”

“Weakling king!” Thor says, smashing his cup on the table. “Death is too good for cowards and yet it is the only outcome that they should meet.”

“Yes, of course this is what you would say for our father thought the same,” Loki says as a wide smile splits his face. “As Laufey ran away, bending his back and stumbling over his own feet, Odin’s rage was like a summer thunderstorm, unexpected and terrible. He swung his hammer high, ready to smite his enemy in the back and end the wretched reign of the Weakling King. Except—” Loki smiles, letting the words hang on his lips. “Except the rage was too great in the Allfather’s soul and he threw the hammer too hard and too far, drunk on his own power and undeniable victory.”

Satisfied, Loki takes a sip of ale and it takes a moment for Thor to realize that his brother does not mean to continue the story.

“And?” Fandral presses.

“And?” Loki repeats in an innocent tone and he shrugs, unbothered. “And this is all. He threw his hammer too far and he lost it.”

There is a moment of silence until Volstagg explodes in a resounding snort.

“He lost it?” Thor asks in disbelieving hiss. “He— _He lost it_?”

Loki simply nods and after a hopeful look at the bowl of grapes at Volstagg’s elbow, he sighs and picks up an apple.

“You little—” Thor huffs, fighting his own amusement. It is so typical of his brother to embark them in epic tales woven thickly with truth and lies until they can distinguish neither black nor white. “Of course you would amuse yourself at our expense.”

The smile that graces Loki’s face is not the one Thor expects, lacking the boyish mischief that has been the constant companion of his childhood.

“I am not lying. He did lose his hammer,” Loki says quickly, barely keeping his voice level. Thor realizes there is badly hidden eagerness in his brother’s tone, in the way he juggles absently with the apple. “You see, Laufey was no fool. He chose to flee and save his life. You call it cowardly, but I call it clever. He knew Odin would try to smite him and he saw an opportunity rather than a threat. As soon as my father let Mjölnir fly from his fingers, Laufey conjured a spell that unleashed a thick and impenetrable mist, which engulfed the entire battlefield.”

Loki pauses, lowering his voice. “Imagine, my friends, the mist wraps around you in a heartbeat and you lose all your senses. Imagine how the Allfather must have felt when he called his beloved weapon and only the void answered his summons. I wonder when he finally understood that he would never find her again. When did he finally see that he would never hold her weight in his hand again? Imagine how hard, how _heartbreaking_ it must have been.” 

 _Torture,_ Thor thinks, clenching his fist, _it must have been torture._

“I suppose he searched for Mjölnir,” Loki continues softly. “Hours, and days, and weeks, he must have searched for his lost weapon, the mightiest of all, but she was lost to rot forever in the wastelands of Jotunheim. Laufey perhaps lost the war but he did inflict the worst punishment, the pettiest of retribution to his enemy of old. A man in Asgard cannot be called a warrior if he does not possess a weapon. That is your way, is it not?”

Perhaps it is because of Loki’s voice, soft and captivating, but when the last words are said, Thor’s resolve has grown hard as steel.  

“This weapon, Mjölnir, I shall find it,” he announces, and Loki’s smile grows, as if it was his plan all along. “I will march in Jotunheim and claim her as mine.”

“This is a vain quest, brother,” Loki says and there is a satisfied undertone in his voice. “Even if you are found worthy, how will you break the curse? You know your strengths and this is commendable, but you would be a fool to ignore your limitations.”

“Nonsense!” Thor exclaims, laughing.           

“Don’t be a fool,” Loki snaps. “You will roam the wastelands like a lost lamb if you engage on this path as you are now, without preparation or strategies to break the seiðr. Be reasonable, you have not the skills for this doomed quest.

Thor laughs. "What need do I have of illusions and magic tricks?"

"You will find yourself hard pressed to claim Mjölnir if you count but on your valor and the brutish strength of your arms,” Loki sneers. “Do you think you can succeed where our father failed for years? Your confidence is galling.”

Thor grins wolfishly. “I will claim Mjölnir as my own for I have something that Father never had." 

“Infinite arrogance?” Loki snaps.

Thor laughs. “ I have you, brother, have I not? What reason is there for me to fear this king's spells when you are by my side.”

It takes a moment too long for Loki to smile, a fleeting moment when Thor can decipher unbridled surprise and it pains him. Thor cannot understand why, after years of childhood spent together, each acknowledgment of Thor's esteem is like a slap in his brother's face.

“Or are you leaving your oaf of a brother to fend for himself against spells and shadows?” Thor asks, refusing to recognize the uncertainty in his own heart. “Will you not help me in this pursuit?”

“And miss a quest worthy of the sons of Odin?” Loki says a breath too late. "I think not."

“Then it is decided!” he announces loudly, clasping Loki’s shoulder. “We shall ride to Jotunheim and I, Thor Odinson, shall claim the Hammer of the Gods for my own.”

 

 

Yes, it must be Loki’s fault since it seems it was all Loki’s idea. As soon as Thor sets his mind to the quest, Loki takes over and describes how they will proceed, managing the affair with so much ease that Thor wonders why Loki even mentioned the story. His brother could have gone and taken the weapon for himself for all his careful planning.

They agree to meet the next morning and at dawn they gather deserted courtyard. Their friends arrive one by one, with various degrees of impatience, enthusiasm and dread, dressed in armor and carrying their heavy cloaks under their arms, already wary of Jotunheim’s reputation for ice and unforgiving wind.

In silence, they saddle their horses and together they go to Heimdall. The old gatekeeper is their first obstacle according to Loki. Without his power, it would take them months to reach the wastelands of Jotunheim. Loki has spent months researching the archives to discover where the battle raged, collecting every detail to land as close as possible to Mjölnir. After all, Jotunheim is enemy territory; they would have no time to spare.

The gatekeeper’s tower is nestled deep within the city, hidden behind stone walls built to protect the citizens from what lays inside, with no doors or windows, only an archway under which Heimdall stands.

 _Stoneman,_ the people of Asgard call Heimdall for he stands so still that he almost merges with the stones.

Once Thor made a wager with Loki. So sure of himself, he bet his favorite toy, a small compact wooden wolf that his father had carved for him. The wager was simple: Thor argued that no man could stand still for a whole day without resting or stretching or sitting down. Loki would not let himself be convinced and so they decided to spy on Heimdall and discover who was right. At dawn, they sneaked out of their bedrooms, and sprawled on their bellies under a bush to watch the gatekeeper. First, they grew hungry, but Thor would not leave his post, knowing that his brother would take any opportunity to lie and win the bet. Then, they grew moody, because they had not anticipated that a wager could ever be that boring. Finally, they grew tired and they fell asleep, curled against each other, long before Heimdall even blinked. To this day, Loki still claims he won the toy. After all, they never did see Heimdall leave his post, which pointed to Loki as the winner. But with all his childish pride, Thor clung to his little wolf and never acknowledged the clever twist of the bet’s rules.

The sun has not yet risen over the roofs when they approach the tower. Heimdall does not shift or even acknowledge them when they dismount.

“Heimdall,” Thor greets, trying despite himself to catch a glimpse of the treasure guarded so fiercely. It is not the first time he relies on Heimdall’s power but he cannot never quite squash down his childish glee for Thor knows that behind the gatekeeper lies a bridge.

It is a peculiar bridge: small, only a few paces long, but so large it is almost a square. It covers a bottomless pit and Thor has always fought the impulse to throw a stone in it and discover if he can hear it hit the bottom. The bridge looks harmless, merely a layer of clay and gravel to keep good citizens from falling to their death. But if its master is willing, the bridge shines green and red and blue for the worthy and opens impossible doors.

The rainbow bridge he heard his father call it once. _Bifrost,_ Loki had whispered in the old tongue.

“You come early, young Lords, and with a request I do not approve of,” the gatekeeper says. For a tense moment, they simple gauge each other, a group of reckless youths, eager for trouble and glory, and the impassive stoneman.

He feels rather than sees Loki shift behind him but Thor holds up a hand. His cunning brother is no friend of Heimdall and this is one instance where words will be useless.

“We seek not your approval, gatekeeper,” Thor says, “only safe passage.”

“We have directions.” Loki adds. “I have collected—“

Heimdall almost raises an eyebrow. “I know what you seek, young prince, and I have no need of your counsel.”

Disregard for Loki’s intelligence is worse than any direct insult and Thor rushes before Loki’s forked tongue wrecks havoc on their mission. “Then you need only send us on our way.”

“Your quest is vain,” Heimdall says even as he steps aside. “Try not to get killed, my princes.”

They nod and it is almost frustratingly simple to leave: a single step on the _bifrost_ , the static of Heimdall’s power and the raw energy that sends them swirling through the air.

They land on the frozen grounds of Jotunheim. It is a barren land, hard and unforgiving, where the growing season is too short and the temperatures too low for any tree to grow. There are only rocks and lichens under Thor’s boots and the air is cold, unnaturally so compared to the golden summer of Asgard.

It’s worse than he expected as he quickly fastens his cloak. The mist is so thick that he can only see the outlines of bushes and rocks a few paces away. But worse, the mist feels threatening as if the wisps of fog and frozen air were slowly curling around his throat and Thor would only realize too late he could no longer breathe.  

“We must keep closely together, my friends,” Thor says, trying to reassure his horse as the beast shifts uneasily.

“To what wretched place have you brought us?” Volstagg asks.

“Not wretched,” Sif says softly, and her breath escapes in white solid puffs in font of her lips. “Soulless.”

Thor nods in agreement. They must move soon and fast, but where? He takes a few steps forward, leaving his companions behind him. There is no sign, only smothering mist and wrecking coldness.

There is nothing. There is— There is something at the edge of his mind: a distant wailing tugging at his consciousness, soft whimpers and incessant pleas clamoring for his attention. It tastes of loneliness and utter despair, hope too, charging the air with promises and lightning, and Thor swallows with difficulty.

 _Have you come for me, prince?_ A voice whispers in the depths of his mind and he understands. He hears her, Mjölnir. How she cries in anguish, how she aches with loneliness and abandon. Thor clenches his fists.

 _I have,_ he thinks _. Too long have you rotted in these chains. One mighty as you should not be forgotten and exiled. In my hand, you shall know glory again._

There is no response but the winds pick up, swirling around Thor, leaving him disoriented, unbalanced.

“Brother,” he says breathless. “She is calling me.”

He turns around, meaning to say more, explain the pressure in his heart but his words die on his tongue.

His brother is staring in this distance, profile sharply defined against the mist. Thor always wondered but now he finally understands how the golden hues of Asgard treat his brother ill. Here amidst greys and shades of green, his brother looks alive and crisp.

_He looks powerful._

Loki turns his head and he smiles too, bright and unafraid.

“I know,“ he says. “I hear her too.”

Their friends exchange tight looks but Thor staggers to his brother. When his fingers close on the cold leather of his armor, Thor can breathe again.

“Remember,” Loki says. “I will break the spell. Once the mist dissipates, we must act swiftly. I’m sure we won’t be here alone for long.”

Thor nods, taking a step back as Loki raises his hands to draw complicated runes in the mist.

“Where will the hammer be?” Fandral asks, coming up to Thor’s left.

“We cannot be sure,” Loki answers without breaking the slow movements of his hands. It looks beautiful to Thor, almost easy, but there is a shallowness to Loki’s breath that betrays the difficulty of the task. “This mist is altering any sense of depth or direction. Once I lift it, Thor will know.”

Loki works in silence, and soon a fine sheen of sweat gathers on his brother’s brow while their companions watch him suspiciously. Seiðris not the way of the Aesirs. Thor may be fascinated by Loki’s ways but he knows he is the only one. 

“Can you lift the spell, Loki?” Thor asks as his brother’s gestures gradually slow down.

“Of course I can,” Loki grins. “Can you find the hammer?”

The mischief in Loki’s voice is familiar and he feels an answering grin break on his face. “Of course I can,” he parrots.

For an instant, they just stare at each other, wearing similar grins full of nervous excitement before Loki falls to his knees, spreading his hands flat on the rocky ground.

“Prepare yourself,” Loki simply says.

With a grunt, he pushes his hands against the cold earth and Thor feels the ripple roll under his feet, disturbing the quietness of the wasteland.

When he looks up, the mist has vanished, and Mjölnir’s despair explodes in his mind.

 _Quickly, prince!_ She screams. _Quickly!_

“I can hear her,” Sif says shakily.

Thor nods grimly. His brother is still on his knees, hands fisted in the gravel and dirt. Thor bends down and he helps him to his feet. 

“Thank you, Loki,” Thor says. “I know where she is now.”

“Hurry,” Loki says between two breaths, “they will be here soon.”

Thor nods and he turns to their companions. “We ride, my friends. Draw your swords, we may find trouble on the way.”

Thor takes a deep breath before he spurs his mount forward. The wastelands offer no resistance to their ride; the hooves of their horses are sure against the rocks and the dry grass. Now that the mist has lifted, the fields stretch as far as the eye can see under the weak sun. With each league that is swallowed by the unforgiving ride, Mjölnir’s voice grows louder in his head. She cajoles him, urges him to make haste, to press harder and Thor complies, the lure of her power too strong to resist.

His companions ride close to him, urging their mounts to keep up with his merciless pace. Sif rides to his left, Fandral and Hogun are behind him while Volstagg closes their march. This is their usual combination; their appetite for adventures and troubles have taught them to fight together.  

Loki rides close to his right, face grim with concentration while he casts suspicious looks in the distance. Sometimes he mouths unspoken words or he draws runes in the wind, and Thor knows their time grows shorter.

Mjölnir’s voice becomes louder and louder in his head, pleading him to be faster. When his ears ring with her desperate cries, he has to slow down, circling warily the rocky ground.

“She is close,” he says and Loki nods, lip curling in a sneer. He feels as if he could just extend his hand to pick her up and he growls in frustration. He dismounts and his companions follow suit. Mjölnir’s call is too strong here; there is no nuance in her whispers to help him find her. He takes a few hesitating steps, aware of Loki behind him. 

 _No!_ Mjölnir screams and Thor stumbles in surprise. _My prince!_

He finally sees her. The hammer is lying at the edge of the fields, embedded deeply in a rock at the foot of a gentle hill. Although her handle is covered in moss and the metal of her body has grown dark with grim and dirt, she is beautiful and her power already simmers under Thor’s hand.

 _I have found you,_ Thor thinks and he has already taken a step forward before he realizes that she is not alone. Two tall men stand behind her.

 _Jotuns,_ Thor thinks. _Jotuns who would keep me away from my prize._

“Are we too late?” Volstagg mutters and in a swift movement, almost too swift for a man of his bulk, he draws his warhammer.

Slowly more men emerge from the shadows: a dozen, then a dozen more, until there are too many to distinguish. They stand behind the first two men, their leaders, Thor understands, but the gleam of their weapons is unmistakable: soldiers. Their party remains unnoticed as the two leaders argue hotly, but when one of them, the leanest, shoves the other and wraps his hands around the hammer’s handle, tugging and tugging, Thor can barely think over Mjölnir’s whines.

“Leave her be!” Thor shouts.

The leaders’ heads snap up and simultaneously they reach for their weapons.

“Careful, brother,” Loki whispers at his shoulder as their companions come up to their side, drawing their weapons wordlessly. “Those two are not mere footsoldiers.”

“Who are we to congratulate?” the tallest of the leaders calls. “Who lifted the spell and left the hammer ripe for my taking?”

Loki sneers behind him, taking a step forward but Thor catches his arm. 

“I am Thor of Asgard,” he calls back, unsheathing his sword.

“A prince of Asgard? How fitting,” the man grins. “I am Helblindi, and this is my brother Býleistr.”

 _The Princes of Jotunheim,_ Thor understands. _Indeed, how fitting._

“It seems the hammer will not recognize my brother as her master,” Helblindi sneers and he reaches for Mjölnir’s handle. “Thus, I must thank you, Asgardian, to have gifted me with such a boon.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Thor growls as Mjölnir whines under Helblindi’s frantic pulls but does not budge. “The hammer is mine.”

At that, Helblindi stops and he takes a moment to straighten, smoothing his expression.

“So it seems.” He leans towards his brother to whisper a few words and as one man they come to stand in front of the weapon, raising their swords in clear defiance. “But you’ll die before you can claim her.”

A smile splits Thor’s face. They look strong and he truly loves a good challenge.

“My lord, we are on their territory,” Sif says urgently. “This means war if we engage them.”

He does not even consider it. “No, I have come too far.”

He charges.

“Thor!” he hears his brother’s voice call him but he lets his rage and hunger for blood guide him. He reaches Býleistr first, but Thor manages to knock his sword away before he barrels into him. The impact sends Býleistr flying in the dirt and Thor barely has the chance to raise his sword in defense before Helblindi is on him.

He catches Helblindi’s strike with the edge of his sword and grunts under the effort. The prince is strong, so strong that Thor has to quickly reinforce his hold with his other hand lest he loses his head.

He can practically count each tiny notch on the steel of Helblindi’s sword before the Jotun breaks away, mouth twisting in a pained sneer, reaching for a small knife embedded under Helblindi’s arm where the flesh is left unprotected by the armor.

_Loki._

His brother comes up to his side, drawing two sharp dirks out of thin air.

“Will you ever think?” Loki hisses to him. “Look around you.”

The field is suddenly swarming with Jotuns. Sif has engaged Býleistr, aided by Fandral, while Hogun and Volstagg fight off the oncoming waves of soldiers. It seems obvious now: they cannot win this.

“You—” Helblindi grunts as he pulls the knife out.

“Leave him to me,” Loki whispers urgently. “Go fetch your hammer now or we all die here.”

“He’s too strong,” Thor blurts out. His brother might be ruthless and efficient but this is a true warrior, not some boy playing at war. “He’ll kill you.”

“Then you’d better hurry, brother,” Loki says before he pounces on the Jotun prince.

Thor swears under his breath but starts running towards the hammer. There is no room for indecision in a battle and he has long learned to trust his brother’s judgment.

“Hogun! To my brother!” He yells and his friend snaps to attention, nodding curtly.

Thor has to carve his way to Mjölnir but for every Jotun he slays, two more come forward to bar his path.

 _Too slow,_ Thor thinks, heart pounding. He does not dare look back to Helblindi, fearing what he would see. There’s a sharp cry of pain over the resounding clangs of battle and Mjölnir’s incessant whispers, and Thor squares his jaw, diving into the lines of Jotuns, barely dodging the blows they aim at his face. He thrusts and sweeps through their bodies as if they were wooden toys. And finally, she stands before him. His fingers barely hesitate when they close around the intricate leather and gold lining.

Mjölnir comes off silently from her stone pedestal and Thor’s mind goes very quiet as he tests the hammer’s balance in his hand. When two Jotuns close on him, he thrusts his arm in a wide arc, a reflex ingrained by years of training rather than a conscious gesture. He feels their bones crunch under the hammer’s metal, and when their spines snap, neatly in two even halves, the Jotuns die with their mouth open but too quickly to cry out.

 _My prince,_ Mjölnir finally whispers where she lies warm and bloody in his hand, _we will destroy everything together._

He rests a broad hand on her side, reverently.

“Thor!”

A scream, but it feels distant to his ears, almost eerie. He looks up. Rows of Jotun watch him warily and as he shifts his grip on his hammer, they slowly edge away from him. Thor turns. Ah, it was Sif’s voice. She is still screaming at him, gesturing wildly. Thor’s gaze sweeps across the fields. Fandral is barely holding up against Býleistr, while Volstagg keeps his back. Hogun is laying on the ground, immobile, one arm thrown over his face and Helblindi has a mad smile on his face, holding Loki’s wrists. He’s talking, Thor sees and there’s a deep gash on Loki’s temple. The blood has bathed his cheek red and tangled his hair in a thick plait, framing Loki’s eyes, blown wide with honest fear as he struggles weakly against the Jotun.  

Thor’s eyes focus and the world turns red.

 _Smite him,_ Mjölnir sings softly. The hammer flies out of his hand through the air to crash on Helblindi’s arm. The bone cracks and the flesh bursts in spurts of blood red and bone white as the prince falls backwards with a shout, crashing in the frozen earth.

Mjölnir flies back into his hand as Loki makes a soft surprised noise, stumbling backwards. The struggle between Býleistr and Sif breaks off abruptly as Thor makes his way to his brother, letting Mjölnir fly and flay every Jotun on his path until they all scamper like mice to escape his wrath.

He cups Loki’s necks and his fingers turn lukewarm with his brother’s blood as he assesses the wound. Loki’s skin is chalk white and clammy, and while his mouth is open, he remains silent.

“Nothing to say, brother?” Thor grins. Power thrums under his fingers and the thrill of it makes him want to howl in joy. “Behold the day I finally beat your clever tongue.”

But there is no happiness on his brother’s face, only fear and uncertainty and Thor hesitates.

 _Are you not happy for me, brother?_ Thor thinks.

“He lives!” Volstagg shouts where he’s kneeling next to Hogun before he slaps him. “Wake up, laddie!”

Hogun regains consciousness with a garbled moan. Behind him, Sif and Fandral approach slowly, limping together.

 _All hurt, all hurt because of me,_ Thor despairs but Mjölnir won’t hear it, still bent on blood and violence, almost burning in his hand.

“We—” Loki swallows. “We must go home now.”

His fingers tighten around Mjölnir. He wants to fight still, pursue the rest of the deserters, march on Jotunheim’s castles and burn the ice realm to the ground. Helblindi groans and slowly gets up, left arm hanging limply at his side. Despite the mess of flesh and sinews and bones, the prince is still smiling.

“Run home, princelings,” he sneers.

Thor takes a step forward, but there are fingers around his arm, and his brother’s voice in his ear.

“Thor, calm yourself,” Loki hisses, and his fingers tighten painfully on his arm. “We must return now _._ ”

Thor wants to argue, but there’s fear in Loki’s eyes, urgency in his grip and Thor swallows his rage.

“Heimdall!” he yells brandishing Mjölnir high over his head and their group huddles close together as they are engulfed by the _bifrost_.

The heat of Asgard is choking as they land on the other end of the bridge, and Thor is disoriented for an instant. When his vision clears, his father is standing in front of him with a thunderous expression.

“Father—” Thor starts.

“Blundering fools,” his father growls, eyes flashing with anger, and behind him he can only imagine how his companions take a careful step back, “you defy me again and—”

Odin’s words falter as Thor raises Mjölnir, cradling the hammer between his hands.

“You—” his father almost stutters.

“I have found her, Father,” Thor says softly, almost tenderly. “I have brought her home.”  

Odin’s fingers hover his weapon of old, retracting before they can touch the rugged and dirty metal.

“Thank you, my son,” his father finally says, taking a step back.

It humbles Thor to watch his father’s face soften as it sometimes did when Thor was very young and did something sweet on accident, or as it still sometimes does when he watches Frigga and her quiet beauty. Thor knows his father is only a harsh man because of his status but he never expected to see the raw affection his father holds for him so clearly exposed on his face.

“We must go to the healers,” Thor says. “Hogun was badly hurt. Loki—”

“Yes, but first—” Odin agrees, smiling tightly. He clamps one hand on Thor’s shoulder before he turns to the curious onlookers that have gathered around the mouth of the bridge.

“Behold!” Odin yells, and his Father’s voice is strong, so strong that Thor wonders if he has imagined the slip in his father’s countenance. “My son returns victorious from Jotunheim, carrying the hammer Mjölnir, the mightiest of weapons.”

And slowly whispers spread through the crowd, children tug their mother’s sleeves, men strain the heads to catch a glance of the legendary weapon and when Thor numbly raises Mjölnir high above his head, eyes grow wide, children rush behind their mother’s skirts, cheers erupt.

“You make me proud, my son,” his father says. “Only you, my heir, my first born, could have succeeded in this quest.”

The smile freezes on Thor’s lips. “But it wasn’t only me, Father. I couldn’t have done without my friends,” he swallows. “I owe it all to Loki. All the praise should go to you, should it not, brother?”

But when Thor turns, his eyes find the smiling faces of his friends. They stand, leaning against each other for support – even Hogun smiles stubbornly, although he clutches his head, face white and drawn – but his brother is gone.

“Loki—” Thor stutters and he cranes his neck, trying to spot his brother but Volstagg’s beefy arm falls like a tree trunk on his shoulder.

“My liege,” Fandral calls. “Your son returns victorious. This must be rewarded with ale and songs!” The crowd roars with agreement and Fandral grins. “What say you?”

Odin considers the warrior with a leveling look but as Thor recognizes the glint in his eyes, he almost groans.

“Aye,” says Odin and Thor finds his face squashed in the pungent folds of Volstagg’s furs. He disentangles himself hastily, gasping for breath, only to be engulfed by Fandral and Sif.

“A feast, yes, but first the healers,” Odin adds. “And then the baths, most definitely.”

 

 

When they arrive, bandaged and sweet-smelling to the hall – well, almost sweet-smelling, page boys may have hastily scrubbed their armors, but battle grit is always stronger than soap and a few brushes – two caskets of ale have already been broken. Serving girls are bustling, bringing cups and plates, bread and cheeses. Musicians hastily tune their instruments and warm up with easy gigs before the highborns even reached the dais. Thor has just enough time to grab his wooden cup before an old warrior takes a step forward and embarks on the first toast.

The first hour Thor enjoys without restraint. The second and third he suffers with good humor. But as the fourth hour of festivities rolls unseen into the fifth, Thor grows impatient.

“I must go find Loki,” he complains but Fandral clamps a hand on his shoulder.

“You know how he is,” he grumbles. “Hiding to lick his wounds. He’s fine.”

Thor huffs. This is true: it is not unusual for Loki to slip away, and he will not be found if he does not want to be found. Still, he doesn’t mean Thor approves but when Volstagg struggles to his feet and raises his cup for a toast, Thor settles down, torn between a smile and a sigh. He has drunk enough that he settles for both.

He watches with growing impatience as his friend stumbles and bounces on unfortunate words. Volstagg is known for the brawn of his arms, not for the swiftness of his tongue, and his speech is halting and scrappy, but there is a general fondness for the jolly soldier at his father’s table and all bear the speech with good grace, although it rattles their eardrums.

The feast only grows more raucous. When servants roll yet another barrel of ale, three men rush to help them pull it up. Usually Thor would be the first to give them a hand and draw the first cup, but his mind is still restless. Mjölnir’s presence is heavy next to him. Although her voice has fallen silent, Thor’s mind fails to settle. He glances sideways to the empty chair at his mother’s left, and tries not to frown.

Finally, Volstagg ends his toast on a roar and Thor can raise his cup. The hall explodes in cheers and applause and the clattering of too many cups landing at the same time on the tables. Already, he sees how the ancient keeper of the armory reaches for his cup and in panic he stands. He grabs Mjölnir and quickly makes his excuses to his father, taking a moment to lean close to his mother’s ear to slip a few words and make her smile.

He raises Mjölnir one more time, indulging the crowd and his own amusement as he leaves the hall and cheers echo long after the door of the Great Hall close behind him.

The hallways are dark and silent, only disturbed by his footsteps and for an instant he hesitates. His brother will not be found if he does not want too, but that never stopped him from looking. He considers his options and decides on the library. It worked well enough in the past, perhaps he will be lucky one more time but as soon as he pushes the library’s heavy door, the darkness is almost absolute and the stillness too perfect to be faked.

 _The gardens, then,_ Thor sighs and he retraces his steps down the hallway until he reaches the small door. It is harder to squeeze through than he remembers, but then, he is not a child anymore. He emerges in the dark alley and takes a moment to orientate himself. If he turns left, he will reach the marketplace but if he turns right, yes, if he turns right, there lay the gardens. They are beautiful in the moonlight and incredibly loud. Here the crickets are left alone to chirp in peace.

 _Wrong again,_ he thinks and he clicks his tongue. _Last chance._

He sets out for Loki’s chambers, located next to his own rooms, but while his rooms are orientated to the east so he might enjoy the morning sun, Loki has chosen the opposite and allows the sun to bother him longer in the evening. 

Thor advances quickly through the hallways and although he smiles and jokes with the few people he encounters, his heart is hardly into it when he feels the edge of exhaustion creeping behind his eyes.

The door of his brother’s door is unlocked but this is not a surprise. Loki learned very young that a metal lock and a key would not impede Thor for long and the locksmith was growing annoyed by the endless reparation to the prince’s door. He pushes the heavy oak wood. Loki’s rooms are much more spacious than his, but a casual onlooker would swear the opposite. While Thor’s rooms are comfortable but profoundly utilitarian, Loki’s chambers are overflowing with shelves full of books, tables crocking under stacks of parchments, chests packed with tokens and small objects whose use remains obscure to Thor’s eyes. There is no fireplace, but the bed is covered with many furs and covers, creating an intricate nest of whites and shades of brown.

Thor’s eyes sweep through the rooms surveying the chaos with a wry smile.

 _How can he make such a mess when it seems he is never here_?

Thor sighs. It’s too late for hunting, he decides turning to his own chambers. The rooms are dark and Thor freezes in the doorway when he realizes that his brother is sitting on the rug at the feet of his bed, leaning against the dark wooden frame while he slowly peels an orange. Loki does not turn his head, still bent on his task, as Thor enters, smiling ruefully. He goes to his dresser and Mjölnir moans softly as he lays her down.

“You were missed”, Thor says as he sits on the bed, next to Loki’s head and he snatches up a slice of the orange as his brother raises it to his mouth.

“Was I?” Loki chooses another slice. “Did you realize this between the fourth or the fifth casket of ale, I wonder.”

Thor ignores the jibe and catches Loki’s chin between his fingers to turn his brother’s head towards him. His face has been cleaned and someone has tended to the gash at his temple. It looks angry and painful, but it’s not what catches Thor’s gaze: Loki’s face is too pale and drawn, deep unhappy lines etched under his eyes, cheeks almost sunken. It is a face that Thor has seen too many times.

“Loki,” Thor growls, “again?”

His brother brushes off Thor’s fingers and only shrugs as he brings another slice of orange to his mouth.

“Laufey’s spell was stronger than I thought. It took more out of me than I anticipated,” Loki admits. “I was careless. I thought you would find her more easily.”

Thor’s eyes narrow. He knows that seiðr is costly to his brother, leaving him weak and exhausted when he uses too much of his strength.

“Peace, brother,” Loki smiles. “Give me food and a night’s rest and it will be forgotten.”

Thor searches his brother’s for a lie, finds none and he nods, satisfied. He stands and goes back to the dresser and slowly, he slowly removes his gauntlets, struggling a moment longer with the right.

Why they must attend feasts in their armor will forever remain a mystery to Thor, and he swears as he fumbles with the buckles of his breastplate until his brother is at his back, swatting his fingers away, unlatching the buckles with quick efficiency. Once the armor is off, Loki lets it fall to the floor, bending his back to accompany its weight.

“Thank you,” Thor says and Loki nods tersely, eyes shifting to Mjölnir.

Thor feels a small smile tugging his lips and he turns before Loki can see it. There is a pitcher of ale next to the rest of Loki’s supper and it burns like a beacon so he bends down to retrieve it, grabs a cup and pours himself a generous dose.

When he turns back, his brother’s hand hovers uncertainly over Mjölnir. “May I?”

“Need you ask?” Thor only says, draining his cup eagerly. His heart is still thundering and he feels the mighty hammer hum in rhythm with the pulse of his blood. He grabs the pitcher to pour himself another serving and ale sloshes drunkenly over the rim.

He watches covertly as his brother’s long fingers slowly run along the engravings of his weapon and tells himself he only imagining the slow almost reverent drag reverberate in his bones. And yet, the uneasy shiver that runs through him like a wave is real. The way the skin of his back tingles with the ghost touch of his brother’s nimble fingers is unmistakable and this time, he forgoes the cup and takes long swallows of all directly from the jug.

His brother presses a warm hand against the cool metal, covering the symbol that adorns her flank with a smooth palm. Loki whispers intelligible words to the hammer, who nearly purrs in response and suddenly, Thor is desperate for distraction.

“A mighty weapon, is it not?” Thor asks, quietly clearing his throat, concealing the awkwardness as he wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

His brother’s keen eyes snap to his face. “Yes,” Loki says, “it is beautiful.”

And almost absentmindedly, Loki curls his fingers around Mjölnir’s handle and he lifts. Or at least he tries to lift but Mjölnir does not budge, even if she is not disgusted by the attempt, only heartbroken. She loves him already, as Thor loves his brother. But she has only one master and she cannot yield.

There’s no discomfort on Loki’s face, although his knuckles have gone white. He gives one sharp tug, then another, longer and stronger, and as suddenly as he gripped Mjölnir, Loki releases her and Thor can breathe again.  

“As expected, only you could be worthy of her, brother,” Loki huffs. “I am glad for you.”

Thor’s hand lands heavily on his brother’s shoulder and he squeezes. “I am forever in your debt.”

At that, Loki smirks. “Careful with such promises. You may come to regret them.”

“Then—” Thor rakes his mind. “I swear I will assist you when the time comes for you to find your own weapon.”

Loki averts his eyes. “This is even more ridiculous,” he snorts. ”You know as well as I do that I am no warrior.”

“Nonsense!” Thor booms. “You are as much a warrior as any of us. You are quick and ruthless and strong. You fought Helblindi without fear. Surely—“

“Don’t,” Loki snaps and he slips away, stalking to Thor’s meager bookshelf.

He picks up the usual storybook and he ruffles through the well-read pages, fingers lingering carefully on the drawings. His back is straight and tense, even more than usual and Thor goes to him as he always does. His fingers find the nape of Loki’s neck and under his hand the strained muscles slowly relax. His brother’s pulse is strong but there is something more than exhaustion and pain today: the thin line of his brother’s mouth hides more than the cruel prize for using seiðr.

“What is it?” Thor asks.

Loki shrugs, turning another page, eyes flying quickly across the sentences and Thor sighs, wishing he knew his brother less and could ignore his moods.

“What is it, brother?” Thor asks again, catching the book and raising it above his head, far out of Loki’s reach. His brother clucks his tongue indignantly, watching his book narrowly although he does not try to catch it.

“I have a bad feeling, that is all,” Loki sighs. The feast has not yet dwindled and raucous pearls of laughter, bouts of music and the low buzz of conversation impede the stillness of darkness from settling for the night.

“Tell me.”

“It is nothing. There was just—” Loki tries but he breaks off almost instantly, shrugging instead. “It is nothing.”

Loki tries to move away, but Thor moves with him, blocking his brother’s retreat with his larger shoulders, feet planted firmly on the ground.

“Tell me,” Thor says again.

Loki watches him for a long moment, eyeing the door over Thor’s shoulder only briefly before he closes his eyes in resignation.

“Helblindi knocked Hogun unconscious in one stroke,” Loki blurts. “Your friend is twice the warrior I will ever be and he could not land a single blow on the prince. He could have killed me in a breath.”

“You know that’s not true,” Thor counters. The strength of his arm may be limited but Loki has other advantages. When an opponent is too strong, Loki simply fades away to reappear at his opponent’s back to plunge a deadly blade in the enemy’s thick neck. Some call it cowardly, to fight from a distance, to avoid close combat and rely on tricks more than the reach of one’s arm, but Thor has learned to recognize the intelligence of his brother.

“I can handle Aesir warfare. Brutish louts who know nothing of tricks and judge me only by the width of my arm. But Helblindi,” Loki shudders, rubbing his wrists absently. “He countered my spells, he caught my hands to impede me from crafting another one. I was powerless.”

Thor swallows, fighting the rising dread.

“He spared my life, don’t you see?” Loki finally whispers.

“You say that as if it were a bad thing.”

Loki gives him a fond look. “The point is why? Why did he show mercy?”

Thor considers this. “Our little skirmish the kings can ignore. Slaying a Prince of Asgard means war. Father would have marched on Jotunheim.”

“Perhaps,” Loki says but Thor clearly sees that his brother dismisses the idea.

Then, Thor remembers.

“He was talking to you before I crushed him. What did he tell you?”

A considering look passes across Loki’s face. “You saw.”

“Is that what worries you?” Thor asks, relieved. “You should not give weight to words said during a fight. They’re spoken with rage and little reason. What did he tell you that makes you fret?”

“Insults,” Loki breathes out. “Insults against my manhood, against yourmanhood too. What kind of prince needs rescuing from his little brother?”

“Ah, see,” Thor smiles. He means to squeeze Loki’s shoulder but his brother takes a step back. “This has been a long day, you must rest now.”

Loki nods and turns away.

“Goodnight, brother!” Thor calls uneasily.

Loki stops abruptly, one hand frozen on the doorframe but he does not turn back as he gently closes the door.

 

 

The scolding they receive in private makes Thor wonder if claiming Mjölnir was really worth it. His father’s public reaction may have been pride and celebration, but in the morning, when the euphoria of victory has faded, there are only two words on his father’s tongue: disappointment and _fools._

When Thor is dragged out of his bed by a cautious steward at the first hour and informed that the King wants to talk to him _urgently,_ Thor knows it will not be pleasant. Even if he dresses hastily, Loki is already waiting immobile in front of the closed door when Thor arrives to the King’s hall.

Thor takes his place beside his brother and they cannot quite reign in a little smile. The sight of that door is familiar, even more with Loki at his side. They have been here countless times as boys, and even if Thor had not anticipated being in that position again as a grown man, there is a strange comfort in old routines.

“Brace yourself,” Loki sighs when the door finally opens and Thor does not bother smothering his snigger.

Their father is livid, but Thor barely listens. He left Mjölnir in his chambers but all he can hear are her malcontent whines. She demands his attention, vexed that he would abandon her so soon after their union. Soon, his head buzzes with the angry words of his father and the shrill cries of his hammer. When he glances sideways, Loki seems wholly unperturbed by the harsh remonstrance of their king, gaze resolutely fixed on their father. Thor admires his composure when all he desires is to flee back to his rooms like a child and soothe Mjölnir.  

“How many did you kill?” his father asks.

“A dozen, maybe more,” Loki replies calmly.  

Odin sighs. “We might parlay—”

“They hardly matter, Father,” Loki interrupts. “When we were trying to claim the hammer, the Princes of Jotunheim were there.”

Odin rises, but Loki stands his ground, composure tightly in check.

“Býleistr and Helblindi tried to lift the hammer. When they could not, they tried to keep Thor from it,” Loki reports calmly. “We left them alive.”

There’s a long silence where Thor wonders what he’s missing, but he can barely think over Mjölnir’s gleeful whispers.

 _Don’t you see? Don’t you see?_ She laughs. _To war!_

“Do you realize what you have done?” Odin asks at length.

“We have started a war, Father,” Loki answers calmly.

Thor misses a breath. _War?_

“Setting a foot in Jotunheim was reason enough to break the truce,” Odin interrupts. “Fighting the sons of Laufey makes war inevitable.”

Odin settles back in his throne and he takes a deep breath.

“The Commanders must be informed. Thor, you will assemble the council,” he says. “We must be ready for war by the end of the day. Make haste, now.”

“Father, let me go to Jotunheim,” Loki says quickly, as if the words had been resting on his tongue for hours.

“To what purpose? Providing them with an hostage?” Odin asks flatly before Thor can protest, mind too sluggish with Mjölnir’s frantic calls. “This is too late for diplomacy, son. You should have thought before you led your brother into madness.”

“I can do it, Father,” Loki argues and when Odin only sighs, Loki’s calm demeanor vanishes in the blink of an eye. “What have you got to lose? At best, I avoid this war. At worse, well—” He smiles. “Your first-born remains.”

Thor bristles, reaching for Loki’s shoulder but his brother steps away smoothly.

“One day, this is all I ask,” Loki bargains. “If I am not returned by sundown, burn an empty boat on the river and go to war.”

Thor blinks. “This—this is insane, even by your standards, Loki.”

But his brother takes one step towards the dais, chin held up high.

“You are crafty, my son,” Odin says, eyes narrowing in thoughts. “But you would not forfeit your life so if you were not certain of your return. So tell me, what are you not saying?”

Loki recoils slightly and Thor see can see how he quickly weighs his options.

“When I fought with Helblindi, the prince told me something,” Loki finally admits, uncertain for the first time. His gaze flitters to Thor for encouragement but Thor is too dumbstruck to offer any.

“Welcome home, this is what he told me,” Loki confesses darkly and Thor whirls, surprised. “He did not try to fight me. He _welcomed_ me.”

“This means nothing,” Thor tries but his brother waves him off angrily, surging forward to rest a foot on the first step of the dais.

“Father,” he presses. “Allow me go to Jotunheim. I will speak to Laufey and make amends for our folly.”

Odin watches his youngest son from the foot he rests on the dais to the determined set of Loki’s eyes.

“No, Loki,” he replies softly. “I will go.”

 

 

They still prepare for war, at least Thor does. He spends his day in council with the commanders until the efficient wheels of warfare are set into motions. Orders trickle down the hierarchy until every last footsoldier is sharpening his weapon, ready for an immediate summon. The waltz of messengers is dizzying and soon every blacksmith carefully checks his inventory, estimating their needs for repairs and production capacity. Every steward scrambles madly to estimate their stocks for rationing and the means of supply. Every healer lines up the beds in their study, counting bandages and sending their apprentices to fetch more herbs and spirits. The process runs smoothly for the folk of Asgard is made for war, trained to respond swiftly to the call of warfare and rejoice. Throughout the day, the buzz of activity is only broken by the raucous cries of bloodthirsty men who are summoned until the watchmen receive their own orders and all of the noise is drowned by the steady drumming of the citadel’s bells.

Thor is glad when his voice remains steady and his hand does not tremble as he gives his own orders to the council of commanders, but then, it might only be because of Mjölnir’s reassuring weight beneath his hand. She has fallen silent, but she hums like lightning with the rhythm of the bells like a child would sing a nursery rhyme.

No one comments on the absence of the king, at least not to Thor’s face. To do so would be doubting Thor’s ability to command, and hence the king’s choice of delegate. Thor does his best to fulfill his duties. After all, he has been trained his whole life to be a master of war. Still, he is relieved when at the end of the council Týr lingers to clasp his arm, offering him silent approval.

When he has made sure his own armor is in good standing, he hurries back to the _bifrost_ site where he watched his father leave for Jotunheim only a few hours ago. Loki has not moved since Thor left him, still sitting in the shade, legs outstretched in front of him, glaring darkly at the rainbow bridge.

“Nothing still?” Thor asks uselessly as he plops down next to his brother.

“He should have let me go in his stead,” Loki mumbles.

“You know our Father,” Thor chides lightly, squeezing Loki’s thigh in mindless comfort. “There’s no point in trying to change his mind.”

Loki sniffs. “He trusts you with the campaign while I rot here.”

“He means to protect you,” Thor argues. “Laufey would not harm him. On the other hand, he could have justified harming you as retribution for the lives of his men.”

Loki smiles ruefully but says nothing, shifting against the lukewarm stones until Thor can sit more comfortably next to him.

Thor lays Mjölnir on his lap. In the bright afternoon light, the hammer looks grimy and rusty, nothing like a godlike weapon. He catches a corner of his cloak and spits on it, slowly rubbing the grit from Mjölnir’s smooth metal.

“Have a little care,” Loki snorts. “She probably deserves better.”

Thor grins. “She’ll object soon enough.”

Loki’s eyes narrow on his hammer. “Which one was it?” he asks. “The Elves or the Dwarves?”

“You don’t know?” Thor says. “You seemed so sure when you told her story.”

Loki shrugs. “There’s nothing more malleable than the truth, brother. I simply told what I thought was closest to it. Which one was it?”

“You were right. The Dwarves forged her,” he admits and Mjölnir hums in pleasure under his hand. “But the Hammer of the Gods also held some truth. There is truly a storm in her heart.”

“The God of Thunder,” Loki says with a small, almost proud smile. “This is what they will call you, brother.”

 _The God of Thunder,_ Thor repeats for himself. _I will accept your kenning, brother, and never forget it was by your hand I gained it._

“How long are you going to wait?” Thor asks, already bored.

Loki looks away. “You need not wait with me. Feel free to attend to your many duties.”

“My many duties have been attended,” Thor shoots back with a grin, knowing it will only annoy his brother. “How can I leave you to enjoy Heimdall’s fascinating presence alone?”

Loki snorts, eyes shifting to the gatekeeper. Heimdall’s gaze is fixed on some unknown point and Thor knows that he is watching carefully something no one else has the power to see.

“I can’t even see him breathing,” Loki mutters. “You know I won that toy. He’ll never leave his post.”

Thor grins. “Are you still angry about that, brother? That wolf is mine. You can bend the rules—“

“No!” Heimdall roars, rushing forward, and the light of the _bifrost_ bursts like lightning in the small courtyard.

Thor jumps to his feet, feeling Mjölnir snap into his hand as the pillar of light vanishes as brusquely as it appeared, uncovering the shape of his father.

“My Lord!” Heimdall shouts, catching Odin by the elbow when he stumbles forward. “Forgive me.”

“Father,” Thor hears Loki whisper behind him, rising slowly.

Odin turns and Thor barely stifles his gasp. His father’s face is covered in thick blood and there is only a gaping hole where his right eye should be.

“Your eye—,” Thor stutters.

“The war has been averted,” Odin says as he straightens. “Recall the orders, Thor.”

“But your eye,” Thor roars, “this means war!”

Odin barely acknowledges him as his now lonely eye flies over him until it finds Loki.

“No, my son,” he says. “An eye against wisdom, it was a fair price to pay.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be strangers!


	5. Summer III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the end, my friend. So it has been a lot a fun for me, I hope it has been a lot of fun for you too!  
> If you liked this story, I would recommend that you read it again when you're done. By construction, the second reading should be kinda cool.

*

 

 

When Loki first shows his seiðr to his brother, Thor punches him.

Before Thor truly understands his gesture, his small fist has already found its target, landing on his brother’s cheek and Loki, too surprised to protect his face, falls backwards, crashing painfully on the gravel road. Thor doesn’t mean it. It’s an accident. He always reacts with violence when he is surprised. So it is Loki’s fault, really.

“You surprised me!” Thor pouts, taking a step back.

Seiðr is a foreign word on Thor’s tongue. He knows that it exists; he knows that it is a part of any Aesir, but meant to stay hidden, deep within their souls as a source of power and strength, never as an instrument to be wielded in shameful display.

Thor respects magic. It is magic that allows warriors to face death with courage in their heart. It is magic that forges the precious bond between warrior and weapon. It is magic that fuels the hidden bridge within the citadel. Only seiðr has guaranteed Asgard the unerring supremacy over the Nine Realms, but magic cannot be used in other ways. It is wrong. It is cowardly and too dangerous. Wielders of seiðr lose their souls with each whirl of magic that they expose to the world, growing emaciated and mad like the Jotun monsters. It is what his masters have told him. It is what his father has told him. And Thor believes it. So when the flames burst in Loki’s palm, burning red and green, Thor is scared. It is unnatural and he punches his brother.

Loki struggles to a sitting position, curling his small limbs close to his body, keeping his chin tucked against his chest as his left hand covers the faint bruise on his cheek, which already promises to stand in stark contrast with the paleness of his skin.

“Don’t be mad,” Thor complains, already regretting his brash reaction and he extends his hand to help his brother back on his feet.

Thor winces when Loki barely glances at it before he slaps it away. There is no mistaking the hurt and anger in his brother’s eyes, Thor has seen it often enough, but never directed sorely at him.

 _No, don’t be mad. I’m sorry. I was just surprised,_ Thor wants to say but the words are stuck in his throat and stay unsaid as Loki stands up and runs off towards the woods without a word.

“Loki!” Thor yells, but his brother does not turn back, only ducks his head and disappears between the trees.

“Fine,” Thor grumbles, kicking a pebble before he turns away.

 _Fine,_ Thor thinks as he forces himself to walk on. _It’s fine if he wants to get lost in the forest. It was his fault anyway. Why should I care?_

Thor’s fingers clench at his sides. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care even if Loki always fights back, sometimes acting as if all is forgiven only to ambush him with a nasty revenge when Thor least expects it. He doesn’t care even if Loki never runs away. He doesn’t care even if Loki’s eyes were full of hurt and betrayal.

He doesn’t care because it’s unfair. It is so _unfair_. Why couldn’t he have a brother who would rather fight than read, who would rather laugh than think? He wishes he had a brother that he could show off to his friends without hesitation, a brother who would admire him and his friends, a brother whose feats he could boast with easy pride and enthusiasm as if they were his own. Instead, he is stuck with an almost sickly boy who sneers at his friends and shares none of his passions. He is stuck with a boy who wears his magic on his sleeve and exposes it like Thor tilts his face to the sunlight.

It is so bitterly _unfair_ that Thor squares his jaw, ignoring the prickling in his neck, and walks on. The citadel looms in front of him, glinting as gold would in the evening light, and Thor soldiers on, trying to concentrate on his steps rather the treacherous voice hissing in his head.

“You must,” his mother always used to say.

Thor stops, exhaling twice before he stomps his foot and turns back to the forest.

 _My brother,_ Thor repeats to himself as he reaches the abandoned cottage where their row started, only hesitating when the edge of the forest towers in front of him.

“Loki!” he yells, but the forest stays silent and unhelpful, staring down at him gloomily and showing no sign of spitting back his brother.

“Come back!” he shouts again, shuffling his feet against the brown earth. “Where are you, Loki?”

There are no answers, only the strange shuffling of unseen beasts disturbed by Thor’s shouts. What should he do? The sun will set soon and what then? He cannot return home without his brother, his mother would grow mad with worry, but how can he scour the forest with no indication of where his brother has gone?

The edge of worry slowly creeps and uncurls in his chest and Thor shakes his head forcefully, knowing that the next stage is tears and panic. He is a Prince of Asgard, the first-born son of the Allfather, almost a man grown, he will not be scared by some trees and the promise of night. Instead, Thor squares his shoulders, remembering how Loki dived between the trees and imitates him.

“Loki!” he calls out again, walking past the edge of the forest. The darkness takes him by surprise and he falters before his eyes adjust to the dimness. “Brother! Where are—”

“You’re too loud,” a voice complains behind him.

Thor whirls so fast he almost falls. Hidden in the shadows, Loki is sitting on the ground, limbs gathered close to his chest against a massive oak standing tall in the first line of trees.

“Go away,” Loki orders, hiding his face against his knees, and his words come out muffled. “I will go back home on my own.”

Thor does not hesitate. After all, there is no choice.

“I don’t mind waiting with you,” he says before he sits down next to his brother. He collapses, more than he sits, and although he gives Loki a wide berth, his brother makes an annoyed noise and shuffles away from him.

“I thought I would have to scour the forest looking for you,” Thor says hesitantly, picking up a stick from the ground.

“I couldn’t go any further,” Loki sniffs, looking almost guilty. “I hate it there: it’s too dark.  I’m sure the forest would swallow me whole and I would disappear, cast away and forgotten.”

“I have come for you, haven’t I?” Thor says, hoping for a smile, but Loki shrugs again, relapsing into silence.

Thor knows better than to push his brother, instead he rolls the wooden stick between his fingers and presses the tip down in the dirt. It sinks like it would in butter, and Thor lets his fingers play, drawing curves and lines until a shape emerges.

 _A horse,_ Thor recognizes, so he adds a rider to it. He draws a torso, a leg and a head, which is a bit too big, so he covers it with a helmet. The rider soon brandishes a heavy sword. When he pauses, wondering towards which danger the knight should be riding, Thor feels Loki shift closer to him, seeking warmth perhaps, but more likely curious about his entertainment.

 _There has to be a foe,_ Thor thinks. He could draw the rough lines of a Jotun warrior, dressed in rags and thin as death, but that would be too petty a challenge for his fearless warrior so he chooses to draw a wolf, huge and rabid. At least, he tries to; drawing the head is tricky and soon, despite his best efforts, the shape becomes messy. He growls in frustration and erases the draft of the wolf with angry strokes of his hand.

“Wait,” Loki says, catching Thor’s wrist. His brother sinks to his knees, careful not to disturb the first part of Thor’s drawing and with calm strokes against the dirt smoothes down the earth. When he is satisfied, he extends a hand and wordlessly Thor gives him the stick.

His brother works swiftly but precisely and under the calculated gestures of Loki’s hand, a monstrous creature is born: enormous, almost as tall as the rider’s horse, with claws and fangs sharper than blades. His fur is shaggy and rough, and Thor is sure that his hand would come out raw and bloody if he tried to pet it. But what fool would try to pet such a creature? It looks terrible and Thor would wager anything that the wolf’s eyes would gleam red in the darkness.

“There,” Loki says and he sits back, satisfied.

“I fear for my warrior,” Thor says and Loki grins at him, easy and familiar, proud of his sketch.

“He should be afraid,” Loki replies smugly and Thor witnesses the instant where his brother realizes that he has forgotten to be angry: Loki’s eyebrows twist in a strange mixture between anger and relief, self-pity and disappointment.

Thor catches Loki's hand in his own. It is dirty and cold, like his own, but the bones are finer, the fingers slender rather than thick, almost delicate. How well they hide his brother's skills and unsuspected strength.

“Show me again,” he says.

Loki shakes his head, mouth set in a thin line, and his face betrays every word that he could say: tales of hurt, disappointment and resignation fly across his brother's face and although Loki seems unwilling to settle for one, Thor wants to wipe them all away.

He grins, trying for lightness. “Come, don't be shy.”

“So you can hit me again?" Loki snarls. "I won't give you that pleasure."

“Loki—”

“I will go home now," Loki interrupts, trying to stand but Thor tugs him back down, clutching Loki's hand a little tighter.

“Show me again,” Thor insists before his brother can fight his way out of Thor's hold and the forest. Loki glares at him and when Thor understands that his brother will not relent, he forces the hated word through his teeth. “Please.”

This makes Loki hesitates and Thor holds his evaluating gaze with all the sincerity his young soul can muster.

“You won't let me go before I show you, will you?” Loki asks after a moment.

 _Victory!_ Thor thinks and he shakes his head, grinning.

The flame reappears in Loki’s hand as suddenly as the first time and Thor cannot help but flinch a little. The apparition is smaller than before, only a small flicker of red and green that burns bright cupped in Loki's hand. Thor thought it a flame but it is unlike any fire he has ever seen. It burns bright and alluring, but cold.

Thor has been a fool. There is nothing disgusting in what his brother is showing him. The flame is elegant and complex, revealing yes, allowing a glimpse in the nuances of Loki’s heart but—

It is beautiful.

Thor reaches for the small flame, wondering how it would feel under his fingers: as cold water or biting like winter air?  

Before Thor can touch the flame, Loki's fingers close and smother it.

“Don't,” his brother admits almost guiltily, eyes shifting to the ground. “You will get hurt.”

Thor blinks as his brother shuffles nervously, hiding his hands under his thighs as if they committed some mischief, as if he was waiting for punishment and he realizes this is exactly what Loki is expecting: a new rebuttal. He has confirmed Loki’s fears by striking out the first time and his brother is simply waiting for the final blow. Aesir value strength and valor above all, reject trickery and intellect and Loki expects no pity, not even from his brother.

Thor shifts. There is nothing shameful in his brother’s skills, in his love for reading, his ease with words and logic, or even his newfound mastery of seiðr. It is neither shameful nor cowardly. It is unique.

 _I am sorry, brother,_ Thor wants to say _. Although sometimes I cannot understand you, how could you doubt that I love you?_

But Thor has no skills with words; they are always been a burden and never come out quite right. Thor always discovers their unforeseen meaning when it is too late, when they are already spoken and have already hurt and vexed and disappointed so Thor swallows the complicated and heartfelt words that only adults can say. Instead, he grins, ruffling Loki's straight black hair and with simple words, he makes it right.

“What else can you do?” he asks, laughing when Loki looks at him with disbelief. “Come on, show me more.”

Slowly, a smile emerges on Loki’s face.

“Watch,” Loki whispers eagerly as he kneels on the ground, splaying his hands against the earth.

Ripples shoot from Loki’s fingers, waves after waves, rolling in the dirt until they reach the drawing, and Thor watches with fascination as the horse he drew slowly jolts his head and rears. On his back, the rider brandishes his sword in defiance, ready for battle.

“Ah!” he squeals, unable to restrain his childish glee, and he falls to his knees next to his brother.

Loki grins wider and slowly the wolf stretches its powerful legs, prowling in front of its enemy. They circle each other warily and Thor holds his breath in anticipation until the wolf lunges for the horse’s neck. It is a fierce battle: the rider delivers blow after blow but the wolf always dances away from the blade and loses only wisps of fur, baring its fearsome fangs while it searches for a weakness. The beast is agile and intelligent, and with lightning speed it reaches for the horse’s hind leg, biting down cruelly. The stallion crumbles to the ground, screaming silently, but the warrior is quick and valorous, and he lands a sinking blow to the wolf’s exposed neck before he jerks from his dying horse. While the wolf retreats under the pain, the rider stands and without missing a beat charges on the injured beast. The wolf fights with the strength of despair, snarling and biting, but the warrior is too strong and determined and soon his sword sinks in the beast’s soft neck. As it dies, Thor releases a shaky breath.

“See, you needn’t have worried.” Loki says, breathless but grinning madly. “He won after all.”

Thor looks at his brother, his little, frail, harmless brother, and he grins back, picking up the discarded stick.

“Another!” he demands. Loki laughs and obliges him.

They play with the heads bent close together, sitting cross-legged in the forest for hours. While Thor lays the ground of a story, drawing rough lines in the earth, Loki devises quests and adventures, full of danger and glory. When the sun sets, they ignore the growing darkness and still they draw and play and laugh. But soon the night becomes oppressing and when a sudden, strange shriek violates the stillness, the brothers share a look, and although they act as if they are loathe leaving their game, they stand quickly, dusting off their trousers and leave the forest together. Only when he sees the moon high in the sky, does Thor realize how late it is.

 _Mother will kill us,_ Thor thinks, already cringing at their future punishment and he feels his brother shift closer to him as if answering his secret worry. Thor takes large strides, knowing the way is long until they reach their beds, and will be even longer in darkness and uncertainty.

When Loki stumbles, Thor has gained a few paces on his brother. He stops but Loki doesn’t catch up with him, breathing hard, hands resting on his knees.

“Are you all right?” Thor asks as he goes to his brother’s side.

“I’m fine,” Loki says in an annoyed tone and forces himself to straighten, walking past Thor.

After that, Thor walks behind Loki, adjusting his pace to his brother’s steps, which become ever more halting. When Loki stumbles again, Thor anticipates it and he is close enough to keep Loki’s balance, holding him with a steady hand on his arm.

“I’m fine,” Loki protests, trying to move away.

“You’re not,” Thor says.

“I’m fine. I’m just tired. I think I used too much—”

He trails off but Thor understands.  His brother’s face shines with sweat in the moonlight, which lends a chalky and deathly quality to his skin.

“Let’s go”, Loki says, gesturing for the path but Thor shakes his head.

“I’ll carry you,” Thor says.

“No,” Loki answers immediately and his voice is as horrified and scandalized as Thor expected.

“Come,” Thor says. “You tired yourself out to entertain me. In return, let me use my skills to help you.”

He turns his back and bends his knees slightly, preparing his hands to help his brother to climb on his back but still Loki hesitates.

“I can walk!” Loki protests, vexed by Thor’s proposition.

“I know you can,” Thor says, turning to face Loki. “But must I watch you suffer when I know I could help you? We have different strengths, but we are brothers, meant to stand together.”

“Are we?” Loki says, and there is wonder in his tone. “You would stand with me?”

“Of course,” Thor laughs easily, dismissing any other notion. “With you before anyone else. I shall be the greatest warrior Asgard has ever known and you—” Thor hesitates. “You will give us the keys to the tricks Aesirs do not master. Together, we shall never be defeated.”

Loki averts his eyes but Thor can see the tidings of a bright future, where he stands as tall as his father, powerful and fearless, and Loki stands at his side, opening the forbidden doors of shadows and mysteries.

“So, brother,” Thor says fiercely. “Let me lend you my strength when yours fails as I know you will lend me yours when I need it.”

Thor turns and bends his knees again, ready to help his brother onto his back.

“Come,” he says over his shoulder, “before the sun rises.”

There is an instant of stillness before Loki’s warmth and weight settle on his back. He straightens, hefting Loki’s thighs against his hips as his brother’s small arms twine around his neck.

Thor walks, grateful for the moonlight, which allows him to find his way. Loki is more difficult to carry than he thought, like a dead weight against his back, radiating warmth. His arms are tight against Thor’s neck and his head rests on his shoulder so that Thor feels his moist breath brush the skin of his neck.

“I will,” Loki says after a while, arms tightening around Thor’s neck. “I will stand with you and open all doors for you until you are Asgard’s most celebrated warrior.”

Thor merely grunts in agreement, but his hands tighten on Loki’s thighs too.

 _We will be undefeatable,_ Thor thinks and keeps on walking.

 

 

*

 

 

They never recall the orders or silence the bells. Rebellion is upon them in less than a week even if the threat does not come from Jotunheim, but from Vanaheim.

“Jotunheim may have been pacified,” Loki explains to him in hushed tones when their Father remains silent. “But many have seen weakness in the Allfather’s diplomacy.”

 _And in his injury_ , his brother does not add, but Thor knows to interpret how Loki’s gaze lingers on the gauze wrapped around the king’s head.

Odin stays hunched on his throne as he has since his return from Jotunheim, holding Gungnir loosely between his fingers, sometimes shifting the mighty spear between his hands, but ignoring Týr’s cautious counsel about the stirrings in Vanaheim, ignoring his sons who tried to coax orders out of their king, ignoring even his wife who cleaned his wound and wrapped a bandage around his head with infinitely gentle hands.

“The Vanir are proud,” Loki continues under his breath, considering their father uneasily. “They would rather die than live under the rule of a weak king.”

Thor’s hand tightens around Mjölnir. She has been a demanding mistress, never silent, always longing. She demanded justice while he slept, humming gently, urging him to take up arms. She sang encouragement and sweet words luring him like a siren during his waking hours. More than once, he found himself halfway to the bridge before realizing he could not take actions without his king’s consent.

 _You would let them humiliate your father,_ she murmured _. Have you no pride?_

He tried to ignore her incessant cries while waiting for his father’s command, but if their father has been broken by the monsters of the north, then Thor will take the matters into his own hands.

“Father,” he calls, and Mjölnir purrs beneath his hand. “Let me go to Vanaheim. I will remind them of their oath.”

Odin raises his lonely eye to him. “You, my son?”

“Aye, with Mjölnir—“ he stutters, cradling his hammer between broad hands. “With Mjölnir, I will raze those who oppose us to the ground.”

Odin follows the lines of his weapon of old slowly.

“You have inherited a great power and I will let you seek your satisfaction,” he says. “Go and spread the word of your newfound power. Restore our realm to its full strength.”

“Father, please,” Loki complains instantly. “You cannot allow him to go.”

“You think me too weak, Loki?” Thor says, when his father does not answer, shutting his eye tightly. 

“I think you too brash and unthinking,” Loki snaps back. “You would start thousand more wars with your recklessness.”

“Then come with me, brother,” Thor grins. “You know best how to keep me out of trouble.”

Loki allows himself a small smile and Thor cannot help but appreciate how it softens his features, how it gives him a young, almost sheepish expression. Thor has almost seen nothing of his brother since they retrieved Mjölnir from Jotunheim, too caught up with the preparations for war and his duties. He realizes that he has missed him, his wit and his intelligence, missed his elegance and his ruthlessness.

 _Oh, my prince, must I share you?_ Mjölnir cries out. _Think of me only!_

“I might,” Loki grins back although his smile is slight, almost strained as if he could hear Mjölnir’s jealous whispers echoing in his mind and Thor feels suddenly guilty, strangely torn.

Odin jerks to a stand, letting Gungnir clatter to the stone floor.

“Thor,” Odin says and despite the strange, almost haunted look in his father’s eye, his voice comes out strong. “You will go with Týr’s regiment.”

Thor means to complain. He has no need of Týr as a chaperone: Mjölnir is crackling with power and he feels as if he could conquer the world with her power only, but Loki’s hand lands on his forearm and Thor swallows back his words.

“Loki,” he says instead. “Will you—”

“No,” Odin barks. “Loki, leave us.”

Thor whirls, protest already blooming on his lips but Loki only squeezes his arm harder.

“I have need of your brother here,” Odin says in a tone that Thor heard often enough, leaving no room for discussion. “Go Loki, you are dismissed.”

“Do as he says,” Loki whispers to him warily, eyes fixed on their father, before he spares a rueful glance for his hammer. “Give her what she demands before she deems you unworthy. You know I will join you as soon as I can.”

His brother bows to their father, right hand resting on his heart respectfully and strides out of the hall, blending in the black and green hues of the shadows seamlessly. Thor is deployed for Vanaheim along the next day and only his mother is there to see him leave as the light of the bifrost engulfs him.

 

 

They quell the rebellion in a matter of days, and it is easy for Thor to bury the rank taste left by his father’s orders in a haze of dying bodies and crushed skulls, so easy that when the commander of Vanir armies falls to his knees to present Týr with his weapon, Thor does not cheer with the rest of the regiment. Mjölnir would not allow it.

“I cannot return now,” he tells Týr as the bifrost swallows the first wave of soldiers. “Let me stay behind. There is still unrest to be met.”

Týr glances at Mjölnir and he shifts, resting his hand on the worn handle of Ùlfurhöfuð. “Not satisfied yet?” he asks.

Thor shakes his head. There is nothing else to say. Týr is a warrior, he would understand.

Týr snorts. “Then I will stay with you, boy. I cannot return to your father without your hide.”

“I have no need of a guardian,” Thor says. “Send my brother if you’re worried to keep me alive.”

Týr’s stern face remains jovial, but even Thor can read the warning in his eyes.

“You have no need of your brother now,” he says, eyes dropping to Mjölnir. “You need the guidance of a warrior before you lose yourself to her power.”

Thor contemplates the shining light of the bifrost as it returns the soldiers smoothly to Asgard. It would take a single step to be home and left to investigate the shifting shadows behind his father, but Mjölnir is warm and simmering in his grip.

“They call me the God of War,” Týr says, clasping his shoulder. “Come, prince. I will show you what it means to become a God.”

Together, they travel for weeks across Van _a_ heim, seeking fights and challenges, and finding more than a willing partner to please his hammer.

A weapon must yield to his warrior. A warrior must yield to his weapon. That is the old saying and Thor finally understands it. He thought that Mjölnir would become his servant but often Thor feels like the roles are reserved. When she screams her demands in his mind, he bows to her wishes, fervent in his devotion to find more death and glory to sate her hunger. When he mentions this to his companion, Týr smiles at him fondly, hand closing on the pommel of his sword.

“When I claimed Ùlfurhöfuð, she resented me,” Týr tells him. “She is vain, you see. She balked before each fight, fearing that she would be damaged and bleed for me, while I escaped unscathed.”

Týr opens his hand, revealing the pommel of his sword and Thor realizes that it is shaped like a wolf’s head.

“Her name—“ Thor mutters, finally understanding.

“Yes,” Týr says. “But look closer.”

The metalwork of the pommel is delicate and innocuous but Thor realizes that it is not ornamental. The teeth of the wolf gleam sharp in the sun and the raised ears of the beast look even sharper. The cover on its hilt is nothing like Mjölnir’s supple leather. Instead, the hilt is wrapped in dark shards of metal like a wolf’s shaggy fur and when Thor brushes a finger along it, his skin breaks almost instantly on the rugged, sharp pikes, reminding Thor of the drawing Loki made a lifetime ago in the dirt.

“I fashioned her head to resemble a wolf,” Týr explains and when Thor glances at the commander’s right hand, Thor sees a complicated maze of scar tissue and unhealed wounds on his palm. “She only accepted her name once she realized I would bleed for her as she would bleed for me, each time I took her in my hand.”

Týr smiles faintly. “You see, prince. Be prepared for sacrifices or the hammer will never completely be yours.” 

Day after day, enemies fall like pawns. Lithe and quick or strong and bulky, it makes no difference: none can withstand Mjölnir’s hunger and rage, which she groomed into a sharp and lethal storm during decades of abandon in the wastelands of Jotunheim. All fall under her might and when they die, storm clouds gather over their dimming eyes before thunder and lightning celebrate their death.

“Rejoice,” Thor whispers as they die, “for your death came by the hand of the God of Thunder.”

Týr mocks him when he first hears the kenning, but Thor thinks only of Loki. Soon the rumors start to spread. The rebels of old, who for decades have defied the Allfather’s power, bend the knee and when Thor arrives on their doorstep, they simmer like monkeys offering him bread and salt rather than revolt and battle.

 _The God of Thunder is approaching and he wields power that men should never possess,_ the people start to whisper. _Hide your qualms or suffer the bloody price. Here comes the God of Thunder._

 

 

He is fighting the brawny bastard of a proud clan leader, suffering Týr’s insulting encouragement when the bifrost whisks him back to Asgard. Completely unprepared for the rush of light he falls flat on his face when he is released on the bridge.

“Heimdall,” he groans into the warm stones of the rainbow bridge, “a little warning next time?”

Thor breathes in the sandy stones until the familiar smells of his childhood surround him. After so long in the humid air of Vanaheim’s fields, the fresh perfume of stone houses and pines trees are a comfort to his heart. This is his home. More than his bed or the familiar meat pie of the cook, those are the scents that remind him of where he belongs. When he finally gets to his feet, his mother is waiting for him in the shadow of Heimdall, standing as silent and severe as the gatekeeper.

“Mother,” he grins, shielding his eyes against the sun.

“My son,” his mother whispers, voice thinner than a thread, and she rushes to him, her arms twining tightly around his neck.

She keeps him close to her warmth and Thor returns the embrace awkwardly, suddenly reminded him of the long embraces she used to give him when he was so very young and she could still lift him in her arms. Those were moments of warmth and love, and Thor relishes every memory of them. And yet, as he sinks in his mother’s soft embrace, there is an edge of desperation that is unfamiliar. He pulls back gently and tilts his mother’s face towards his.

“Mother,” he asks, shaken to see his mother’s eyes filled with unshed tears, “what is the matter?”

She blinks at him. “Where have you been?”  

“Vanaheim,” he says. “They will never rise up again, Mother. This is a great victory for our realm.”

“You should never have left us, Thor,” she quavers as she shakes her head. “I must take you to your father.”

She brushes past the unblinking figure of Heimdall and leads him silently through the streets of the city. At first, he thinks it is his mother’s unsteady step that unsettles him until he becomes aware of the silence: no calls of his name, no cries of excited children, the streets are silent today. Even the crickets, always deafening in the summer, lay low.

“Mother,” he whispers, but Frigga keeps on walking, refusing to acknowledge his unease.

She does not take the way to their private rooms; instead she makes for his father’s hall and with a gesture of her hand, the guards open the heavy metal doors.

“I have brought you back against his orders,” she tells him before she steps through them. “You must make him listen to reason.”

The hall is silent and gloomy and for an instant Thor thinks it is empty before he realizes his father is sitting in his throne, ensconced in the shadows, hunched and head bowed.

“Thor returns,” his mother calls.

Her voice echoes wildly against the stonewalls, as cold and unyielding as the atmosphere of the room and Thor falters. For as far as he remembers, his mother has been soft and happy, with nobles and peasants, with infants and thieves. He never thought there could be any true hardness in her soft alto and yet now there is nothing but ice and reproach now in the lilting tone of her voice.

She is beautiful with her long blond hair gathered in a simple braid and clad in a flowing grey dress, but the line of her back is straight as she walks up the aisle towards her love, her husband.

Thor stays wooden, waiting for the moment where Odin will raise his head, gesturing for his queen to join his side with his usual smile, full of love and promises, but the king keeps silent and unmoving even when Frigga reaches the feet of the throne.

 _What is this, mother? Father?_ Thor wonders as he watches his parents stand close together but in clear discord. His hand shifts around Mjölnir’s handle and he takes a decisive step forward.

“Father,” he calls, and he strides forward, feeling his red cloak brush against his calves with each step. “I come with joyous news.”

Thor barely recognizes his father: without his armor and dressed in a simple tunic and leather trousers, it looks as if he were divested of his power and rank. Even Gungnir leans limply against the throne, looking more like a harmless wooden staff rather than a fearsome weapon of war.

“My son,” Odin rumbles and he stands, taking a firm hold on Gungnir, and the feel of his weapon must restore some strength to his father for he stands powerful again as soon as he straightens. He is as tall and majestic as he remembers, and Thor still feels dwarfed by his stature even if today, the Allfather is not basked in gold. There is coldness creeping in the corners of the throne room, climbing up the walls and sticking to the carved stone pillars. An unnatural tension sits on his father’s shoulders as if he were suffering under an unseen burden that he would fight fiercely with the courage of an undefeated warrior, refusing to bend but threatening to break.

“My son,” his father repeats, his eye boring holes in Thor’s face. An edge of cruelty has crept in his clear blue eye and Thor shudders.

“My first born,” his father says, “my true-born heir.”

His mother whirls. “You dare!”

“Quiet, wife!” Odin orders and his mother chokes as if slapped.

“Father!” Thor protests, shifting forward but his father raises a hand, silencing him.

Thor suddenly wishes Loki were with them, Loki and his silver tongue carrying calming tones and clever diplomacy. He would pacify his father in a sentence; resolve the tension between their parents in two. Thor knows this is a skill he shall never possess and as he watches the king’s face and the desperation etched deeply in his mother’s eyes, for the first time Mjölnir rests too heavy in his hand. He tries to imagine what his brother would say and his mind stays blank, so he settles for the obvious.

“Father,” he says, and he sinks to one knee, seeking comfort in the formal greeting. “What happened?”

“Let me tell you a story, boy,” Odin says after a long hesitation, shifting his spear from one hand to the other. “It is a tale of two princes, two boys really, whose dreams were two large and ambitions too great. Together, they went on a journey, assured that their combined strengths would grant them any victory, and they came back triumphant, carrying a mighty weapon as the most glorious of spoils. As the older prince presented his bounty to his father, the king was the proudest of all fathers and he knew that his realm would be safe and prosperous for his rule and many rules to come. Only—“ his father growls. “Only they were betrayed.”

“Husband,” his mother begs, “for the last time, reconsider.”

“We have been betrayed, Thor,” Odin repeats, ignoring his wife’s soft plea. “As of today, know that you are my only son and heir. Of Loki the Liesmith you shall think no more and never again call him your brother.”

There is a moment of stillness in the hall. Then Thor laughs.

“What is this?” he asks. “I’m sorry if we have disobeyed your command, Father, but this is hardly—”

His father stomps Gungnir on the stone floor, and the sound, sharp and loud in the hallow hall, startles Thor into silence.

“Loki has betrayed our house,” Odin repeats darkly. “If you ever see him again, know him as your enemy.”

“What is this?” Thor repeats, this time, in a whisper.

“Laufey took my eye when I went to Jotunheim,” his father says bitterly. “But he offered a story in return. How my younger son schemed against his house, against _our_ house.”

“No,” Thor whispers over the mad beating of his heart.

“He meant to overthrow me,” Odin continues without mercy, “and kill you to take the throne for himself.”

"You think I will believe this? Such treachery from the one who has been my truest ally, my constant companion for my whole life?" he says and his father snarls. "Where is he?"

“He is banished,” Odin's voice cuts like a whip. “Cast away for his crimes, never to return.”

Thor balks. “When? Where?”

“It hardly matters,” his father snaps. “He is a figure of the past.”

“Are you mad?” Thor demands. “Tell me where he is. I will find him so I can have the truth.”

“You doubt my word?” his father snaps. “As your king, I command you to remain in Asgard.”

“I will not leave my brother to suffer your insanity!” Thor roars and his father staggers.

“I forbid it!” his father yells.

“Go Thor,” Frigga tells him, stepping to his side. “Make this right.”  

He turns away immediately, ignoring his king’s express command.

 _Loki, a traitor, this is impossible_ , he thinks and he opens the doors with such force that they slam against the stonewalls.

Where should he go? The Nine Realms are vast and Loki could be buried in any recess of Nornheim by now. He could go to Heimdall and ask for his counsel, but he dismisses the idea as soon as it comes. There is no love between Heimdall and Loki, who for years has tried countless spells and tricks to be free of the gatekeeper's unwavering gaze while Heimdall has always been weary of the shadowy ways of Asgard's younger prince. The gatekeeper would not help him, Thor knows, even less if it meant disregarding the Allfather's command. But without Heimdall's omniscience, how can he hope to find his brother? Loki is banished and the world is broad, the possibilities almost unending especially for Loki who always had a disconcerting ease to hide and cower. Thor paces in the hallways, undecided. 

 _Why have you not come to me if you have been banished?_ Thor wonders. _I could have helped you. Would you leave without words and goodbyes, Loki?_

It might be a vain quest but Thor dismisses his doubts forcefully, turning towards Loki’s chambers. Perhaps his brother has been mundane and left some clue for him to find.

 _Big oaf_ , his brother used to call him when Thor charged through the citadel like a bull. Yes, Loki always teased him, but he would always stand close behind Thor to wade more easily through the crowds. Today, however, Thor is alone in his determined dash through the hallways and this only makes him angrier, forcing servants and nobles alike to scramble away as he approaches.

When he finally reaches their private wing where the wooden doors of their chambers face each other in quiet companionship, Loki's door is shut tight but his own is slightly ajar and the flickering light of a burning fire dances on the stone floor. Thor pushes it slowly, keeping a tight grip on Mjölnir’s hilt and takes a cautious step in his room, eyes scanning the room quickly.

Loki is lying on his bed, arms crossed over his face in a vulnerable pose, almost lost among the width of the bed.

“Brother!” Thor hisses, scrambling to close the door behind him.  

 His brother uncrosses his arms and lets a small smile reach his lips.

“You've returned,” he says, struggling to sit up.

“Banished!” Thor snarls and in a few strides he reaches the bed and grabs Loki's arms. “Banished!”

His heart is tight, flooded with relief and worry and the usual exasperation, so full he has to shake his brother.

“I was ready to search every inch of the Nine Realms for you!”

“I know you would,” Loki says, and he lays one hand against Thor's cheek in a familiar gesture. “That's why I stayed: to spare you the journey.”

“To spare me—” Thor huffs, eyes narrowing. "Are you mocking me?”

Loki’s eyes shift downward. “I am always mocking you, brother.”

“Enough!” Thor growls, and he pulls his brother with him, forcing him to stand. “We must go to Father and set this matter straight. I will not have your name so carelessly slandered, even by our own father and king.”

“This is no slander, Thor,” his brother says and Loki catches his chin, demanding attention. “I have conspired against your house and must now suffer the consequences.”

Loki shrugs his arm off and Thor lets go, too surprised to do anything else.

“What are you saying, brother?” he asks, watching Loki sit carefully on the edge of the bed, resting his arms on his knees and pausing to take deep breath.

“I meant to kill Odin, then you to take your place as the rightful heir,” Loki finally admits, shrugging his shoulders as if he were admitting to a skipped lesson rather than outright murder. “But your lot is too resilient and I see now that my plans were doomed from the start.”

“I don’t believe you,” Thor says, brushing off his brother’s words as easily as his father’s. “Tell me, brother, did you try to poison me at our mother’s table or did you try to kill when you helped me secure my most precious weapon? I think I might have missed it.”  

There’s no mirth on Loki’s face, only resentment.  

“This has always been my greatest advantage: your damned foolishness!” he sneers. “I could stab twice in the back and you would ask me whether I slipped!”

Thor rears back in surprise and Loki stands, pacing restlessly.

“Did you not find it odd that I spoke of Mjölnir when I did?” he hisses. “That when you _finally_ stumbled on the idea of claiming her for yourself, I had already devised the perfect plan to ensure your victory?”

Thor takes a step back. Yes, he thought it odd but—Loki gives him no time to gather his thoughts, abruptly crowding him.

“Will you ever think?” Loki snarls, shoving him. “Did you think it a coincidence that the Princes of Jotunheim were already waiting for us? You giantfool!”

“Loki—” Thor stutters. “What are you saying?”

“Don’t you see?” Loki jeers. “It was all part of my plan. I made a deal with the Jotuns. I would deliver them Mjölnir and in exchange the Princes of Jotunheim would kill you. It was perfect: a tragic trip to Jotunheim, Father would have wept and made me heir.” He shudders. “But you refused to die! Worse, I had to watch you return triumphant!”

Loki’s words cast a new light on their skirmish in Jotunheim: Loki’s assurance as they travelled, his precisely prepared plans, his unexplained disappearance after they returned and Thor releases a shaky breath, mind filling with doubt.

An ugly grin splits Loki’s face. “Ah, do you see? Finally, do you understand?”

 _I am glad for you,_ his brother had whispered softly when he touched Mjölnir, fingers warm against her flank.

“No, I don't believe it.” Thor whispers, bringing his hands to grip Loki’s arm. “I could never believe it. You’re my brother.”

“And you're a fool to think it has any meaning for me,” Loki snaps, sharp eyes flying to Thor’s face. “I would gladly see you dead if it could assert my claim on the throne.”

Thor's lip curls, searching for a lie on Loki's face and finding none. But then, his brother has always been the most talented of liars. 

"You lie to me," Thor hisses.

"Why would I lie?” Loki shrugs. “Why would I confess to failed attempts and aborted crimes?”

“Yes, why?” Thor says. “Why are you doing this? Why are you lying to me?”

Loki pushes him away. “I would have you as my enemy!”

“If you insist on being the villain of this story, then by all means, be my guest,” Thor snarls, letting Mjölnir fall, ignoring her whimper as she hits and cracks the stone floor. “Strike me down now and be done with it!”

He spreads his arms, inviting his brother to attack him and finally there’s a crack in Loki’s carefully crafted hatred as his eyes widen in honest surprise.

 _See,_ Thor thinks, _you do not deceive me._

“I know your heart, brother,” Thor says, lowering his arms. “And the deeds that you claim are not part of it.”

The fight leaves his brother in a rush and he sinks shakily to the edge of the bed. Thor follows, kneeling in front of him.

 _How thin he looks, how pale,_ Thor thinks. _I leave you for a few weeks and they return you to me in this sorry state._

“You confound me,” Loki admits with a sharp laugh that Thor has heard too many times and always preceded some trouble. “Such faith is unwarranted. You’re a fool to trust so easily.”

“You’re my brother,” Thor says, reaching to squeeze Loki’s neck. “Who can I trust if not you? I know not what madness has taken over our father. I only know that you are my ally, Loki.”

There’s a tense silence before Loki bends his head, face suddenly hidden behind black strands of his hair.

“You’re right. Of course, you’re right,” Loki whispers. “I told them you would never believe it.”

“We made a pact, did we not?” Thor says. “To stand together for all times.”

He still remembers his brother’s small legs wrapped around his hips, his moist breath against his neck and Thor’s resolve has never wavered. Together, there was never any other option.

“Running away is futile,” Thor adds, watching the subtle quiver in Loki’s lips with unease. “You know I will come after you. You know it.”

“Yes, I know, you big oaf,” Loki finally admits. “My stubborn brother.”

Those are familiar words and they should warm his heart but Thor is hesitant. Loki pauses to rummage through the folds of his tunic and he soon deposits something in Thor’s palm: an apple, a bit shriveled, but still gold and appetizing.

“Iðunn entrusted me with our apples a few days ago,” Loki explains. “I ate mine but kept yours, as you have done so many times for me. We always ate them together, didn’t we?”

Thor looks up from the small fruit. There is a tentative smile on Loki’s face and it gives Thor hope.

“Eat,” Loki says. “It will restore your strength.”

He sits next to Loki and takes a bite. It is still good although the flesh is perhaps too soft and the taste almost bitter.

“Thank you,” he says, munching thoroughly. “We will find a solution to this madness, won’t we?”

“Yes,” Loki says, watching him take another bite and swallow. He looks wistful, almost sad. “Yes, we will.”

The bitter tang of the apple is heavy on his tongue, almost itchy and burning along the column of his throat. There’s a pang in his stomach, a violent tightening of his entrails, and he looks at the fruit with distaste.

“Come now, eat more”, Loki says, guiding the apple back to Thor’s mouth.

He takes one more bite, then another as Loki nods encouragingly and he chews slowly, hoping to dissolve the rotten taste in his mouth. Bite after bite, he persists. It is a gift from his brother. Of course, he must honor it. When he swallows the last bit of flesh, nearly gagging at its foul taste, Loki smiles at him, so Thor smiles too.

“Good,” Loki whispers taking the core away from Thor’s listless fingers.

 _Little brother_ , he thinks. _You look too pale. Let’s go outside and lie down in the sun._

“Loki,” Thor says. “Let’s go play.”

“Not now,” Loki chides gently. “You must rest first, brother.”

“It’s too early for bedtime, Loki,” Thor snorts but his head is swimming, waves of nausea making his head spin. When Loki’s delicate hands guide him until he lies on the bed, Thor goes willingly, even if there is something at the edge of his mind. “We must—we must go to Father.”

“Tomorrow, yes,” Loki whispers, smoothing Thor’s blond hair with a gentle hand. “We will go tomorrow. Now rest.”

Thor looks up. His eyes burn and all he can see are green, resolute eyes that watch him wearily, thin lips pursed in an unhappy line and shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Why do you look so sad?” he asks, wanting to reach out but his arm is too heavy. He gives up.

The man gives him a little smile.

“You were right, Thor. We made a pact,” he says softly. “I swore to open all doors for you until you are Asgard’s most celebrated warrior. This vow I will not break.”

Thor closes his eyes. The night is stifling. Already sweat pools along his spine, on his chest and he squirms uncomfortably. A hand drags a coverlet against his body but Thor groans, trying to shy away. The wool would be too rough against his aching skin. He’d rather have the comforting warmth of a body next to his own.

A familiar cool hand rests on his forehead, soothing his feverish skin.

“Mother,” Thor whispers. “Mother, sing to me.”

There is a ragged breath next to his ear but Thor is too weary to open his eyes. A voice rises in the room, hoarse and wavering.

“Sleep now softly little love, outside rain is falling,” the voice sings. “Mother guards your treasure trove, hoard of bones and chest of stones.”

Thor smiles faintly.  He has always loved this lullaby, even if it was so sad. He could always—he could—  

“Sleep now softly, sleep so long,” the voice sings on, drowning his thoughts. “Late is best to waken. While each day quickly goes, troubles soon will teach you that men will love, lose, cry, and mourn.”

The voice trails off and Thor feels sleep curl around his mind, dragging him away. But before he loses himself, there is a kiss against his forehead and a whisper in his ear.

“Anything for you, my brother. All will be well.”

When he wakes in the morning, the world has changed.

 

 

*

 

 

 _It was you_ , Thor thinks as he lets the rain tangle his hair and resonate against the metal of his armor like the tiny claws of his beastly friend once did.

He still feels the comforting weight of his brother’s hand on his feverish forehead, the overwhelming nausea that came for him come sunrise like the cruelest of sunrises. The sheep pelt that was soft against his skin, almost as soft as his brother’s hair, is laying before him, wet and matted now in the wreckage of the cottage, but perhaps it could still be sheltering. He could stretch in the rain and draw the pelt against his face until he fell asleep.

 _They will call you the God of Thunder,_ Loki said to him once, smiling.

Thor tips his head towards the sky, closing his eyes, ignoring the grey heavy clouds, until the warmth of his brother’s hand has faded against his forehead, until the burden of nausea no longer clogs his throat, until only the betrayal remains.

 _Come,_ Mjölnir speaks for the first time as he raises his arm, adjusting his grip on the smooth leather of her handle. _We’ll destroy this world together and rebuild it in our image._

 

 

*

 

 

The earth shakes as Thor lands in front of the gates of the citadel. The snow blows in a wide circle under the impact and for a fleeting instant, before the snow reclaims her rightful place, Thor can almost distinguish the cobbles encrusted with ice under his feet.

He straightens slowly, contemplating the open gates with distrust as if they were already resigned to bow down under any invasion.

 _The city is already defeated,_ Thor understands, watching the lonely ramparts, emptied of their watchmen. _Where are the warrior and the sword? What have become of the proud Aesirs? Are you all reduced to fear and cowardice behind your closed doors?_

Thor advances slowly through the empty streets, wading in the snow silently.

 _This is the work of one man,_ Thor wants to shout. _Are my people so weak that one man brings them to their knees?_

He bites his tongue instead, remembering his brother’s sly smile when older warriors would mock Loki’s shaky grip on his practice weapon, already certain of their victory in the sawdust ring, but none walked away undefeated by his brother’s ruthlessness.

 _They have learned to fear you, brother,_ Thor thinks as he walks on. _But I will never be one of them._

Gusts of wind and snow slap his face, making his eyes burn and twisting his cloak, impeding his advance, but Mjölnir is giddy under his hand. She is the master of storms. Snow and hail hold no threat. Winds are her allies.

 _Throw what you will at my face, brother,_ Thor thinks grimly, and if a grin slowly stretches his lips, it is only in anticipation of violence and heartbreak. _I will have answers from you._

The city looks strange to his eyes, almost foreign. The snow has smothered the comforting smell of the stone houses and pine trees and the silence is even heavier now that the night is slowly settling in. Those are the obvious signs of the wrongness that have taken over the city, but there are subtler signs too, tiny details in the set of stones and the flow of his memories. He sees the small door he never quite noticed but where his brother dragged him through once to escape and gain an afternoon of leisure. He crosses the marketplace, empty save the abandoned carts and stalls, left to suffer the snow like scattered livestock. He always strutted around the citadel, puffing out his chest and laughing loudly until all the attention of the citizens rested on him. He never stopped, not even when Loki no longer trailed behind him and faltered under the curious gaze of the people.

His city was always familiar, but he understands now why it was always wrong. He walks by the stone tower as he has done a thousand times before but today he stops. He thought it a ruin, a vestige of times long gone and Thor was alone with no one to stir his curiosity, to push him towards questioning and wonder.

_I have been so blind._

The snow has not stuck to the walls and as Thor runs his fingers against the blocks and the mortar of the tower’s wall, he finally sees it. The walls are brittle, already damaged in many places, but the frailty of the masonry is not due to centuries of exposure as Thor always assumed, it is due to carelessness. The mason worked in all haste, to fill a hole, to hide something. Thor’s hand brushes against the stone until he finds the joint between the two distinct parts of the bricks. His fingers run along the seam of the two constructions until he has outlined the rough shape of a door. On one side, he sees how the bricks are carefully assembled with a special attention for color and shape so that the wall stand as a harmonious whole. But on the other side, everything betrays urgency. The mortar has spilt and drooled on the bricks, where the mason lathered too much mortar and did not bother cleaning the excess. The bricks are crudely assembled, randomly stacked against each other and tiny holes are scattered along the walls, betraying the lack of thoroughness. Some bricks jut out; others are sunken, rendering a rugged surface to the wall where it should have been smooth. This is amateur work, this is unplanned work and Thor knows what they have been trying to hide behind this wall.

He takes a step back and with a swing of his arm, Mjölnir slams against the wall, which crumbles like dust. Behind it, there are shapes of scattered bricks hidden beneath the snow and a gaping hole where the bifrost should be.

“Destroyed,” Thor whispers.

The rainbow bridge, the pride of his people, the source of their power and the warden of their dominion, the bifrost is destroyed.

Thor leans against the remnants of the wall.

“Madness,” he stutters to the wind. “What madness has taken over Asgard?”

This cannot have been his father’s command. Heimdall would have never allowed it. The gatekeeper hovered over the bifrost like the most faithful bride, he would have fought until his last breath before he let ill fall upon his ward. But Heimdall, powerful and fearless Heimdall, who reigned over the bifrost as Odin reigned over his kingdom, was exiled as a mere peasant to dwell near the border of the forest. Thor remembers as Heimdall greeted him as if they had never spoken before, as if Thor had not tried since he could walk to breach his watch and finally stumble on the bifrost to explore unknown worlds that his father stubbornly kept away from his chubby reach. Heimdall was his father’s closest ally and subject, unshakable in his duties and loyalties. What happened, Thor wonders, that the Great Gatekeeper could have been torn from his post and buried far from the citadel, away from recognition and glory?

 _Heimdall has been murdered,_ Thor remembers and he sees bright red blooming on the old gatekeeper’s chest, life leaving his lips in a rush. He sees bright green, the gleaming eyes of his brother, mad and starved, as he threw the dagger at Thor’s feet.

“Brother—” he whispers and doubt spreads in his heart like poison.

“Your father ordered the destruction of the bridge after your bride returned to her country.”

Thor whirls. His mother is standing under the archway, clad in white, shoulders covered by a thick wolf’s fur, and in her hand, she holds a short sword.

“Without the bridge, the gatekeeper’s power was used to watch over the only threat that your father thought real,” she continues, voice harder than steel. “They trapped him into the woods like a wild beast, watched over him day and night unrelentingly, leaving him no chance to escape.”

She steps up to him, bringing a gentle hand to his cheek in a familiar gesture.  

“My poor husband,” she sighs. “He would have severed his own limbs to keep you safe. Instead, he brought his own realm to its knees.”

The weight of his mother’s hand is almost soothing, and for an instant, he considers falling into her arms to seek her familiar smell before he sees a thin ragged line running along the once unblemished skin of her throat like a morbid necklace of bruises instead of gold.

“Mother,” Thor whispers. “What is this?”

She gives him a sad, tender smile. “Don’t you recognize it?”

Thor raises a hand to his mother’s neck, following the thin line along her skin. It looks too fine for strangulation marks; it looks almost like— almost like the edge of a knife wound—

“No,” Thor hisses, pushing his mother away, scared that he would feel the thunderous heartbeat of a tiny animal under his fingers. “You too—”

“Thor,” his mother says, trying to reach for him but he slaps the hand away.

“You said nothing!” Thor snarls.

“Please—”

“Did it amuse you to watch me roam the woods? To lead me between the trees like a lost child?” Thor snaps, voice rising in a shout. “I thought myself mad.”

“I did what I could,” his mother says, voice shattering, “despite my limitations, despite my husband’s orders.”

 _Was it all lies?_ Thor wonders, barely listening to his mother. He almost feels the soft grass under the curves of his body, the sun shining hotly against his face. He used to love playing with the beast, his tiny eyes were always alive and full of mischief as his— He has been such a fool.

 _The Lord of Summer_ , he called himself as the beat of the little’s imp heart moved sluggishly against his throat.

He spared the beast’s life instead of bringing him as a trophy for his recovering mother. But the little stoat was his friend, his playful and beautiful friend, even if the little imp was cruel—

“Járnsaxa,” he breathes out, remembering the flapping flesh obscuring his bride’s beautiful eye, the smell of her blood against the forest’s soil. “What did you do?”

“I am responsible for her fate. I do not deny it,” his mother says as she lowers her eyes. “It was I who brought her to Asgard to be your bride. She was a good woman, strong and understanding. I thought—” his mother stutters, hand going to her eyebrow. “I thought she would bring you peace.”

“Peace?” Thor mocks but he remembers Járnsaxa’s soft curves beneath his body, the sweet scent of her hair filling his head. He thought he could have loved her.

“But Loki would not understand,” his mother admits and his brother’s name is like a punch in Thor’s gut. After years of silence and denial, it is as if his mother screamed his name. “I brought him to that clearing because I wanted him to understand that you loved her and that she would love you. I wanted him to see—” She trails off, shaking her head. “The rest, you know. My clever boy, his skill with seiðr never stopped growing.”

The empty abyss looms behind him. It would take a simple step for him to be engulfed by it and discover how deep lies its bottom. Perhaps there would be no end to his fall, but the fear and weightlessness of it could not be worse than the web of lies and betrayal unfurling like a beast in Thor’s belly.

“I was blind,” his mother continues forcefully without regard for Thor’s turmoil. “It was I who did not understand and after your bride returned to her father, I knew I had to act before it was too late, before my husband’s choice drove you all to madness. Since then, I did everything I could to bring you tog—“

“Enough!” Thor roars, ears ringing, and his fingers tighten around his hammer. “How can I trust your words, Mother?”

“Forgive me,” his mother rasps. “You must forgive me.”

She whispered the same words, as she lay feverish with illness on her bed.

 _All lies,_ Thor thinks. He wishes he could spit out the crush of images and paradoxes crowding his head, threatening to make him mad. He must find answers and he knows that there is only one man who will give them to him, and he knows where to find him. Wordlessly, Thor pushes past his mother, ignoring her small gasp when she stumbles.

“Make haste before the Jötnar come, my son,” Frigga says, but Thor barely hears her, voice carried away by the gusts of wind as he steps under the archway, “before it is be too late and I lose you all.”

 

 

Thor closes the door of his chambers blindly – he dares not turn his back now— but with infinite care although his blood boils with bright rage and nauseous recognition and the door shuts almost soundlessly. Loki does not acknowledge him, content to shuffle through the items that litter Thor’s simple shelf.

“Brother—” Thor rasps, throat dry, heartbeat thundering and when Loki turns, he is holding the small wooden wolf.

“I think I will keep him now,” Loki says, petting playfully the fur of the small animal.

 _Yes, I refused you your boon,_ Thor wants to say but his tongue is stuck on the roof of his mouth, thick and clumsy.

“I did win the wager after all,” Loki adds with a smile and Thor’s vision splits.

There are two shadows where one man should stand. There’s Thor’s little brother, his constant companion. He is Loki, with a quick wit but a sharp smile that hides kindness and devotion. His figure is slight but bright, dwarfed by the hazy darkness of the other shadow: the man of the wood, the Trickster, the Liesmith, the Wintersmith. He almost gags, feeling his brother’s slim legs around his hips as Thor carried him home through the night, feeling his brother’s strong legs around his hips as Thor thrust and thrust again until they found their release.

He moves by instinct, catching his brother by the throat, dragging him across the room until Loki’s skull slams against the wall. When he can think again, he feels more than he hears the heaving of Loki’s chest, brushing erratically against his own. Loki struggles to catch his breath, gasping uselessly under the cruel pressure of Thor’s forearm against his throat. To hurt him or keep him close, Thor cannot tell.

“Brother,” he repeats dumbly.

“Yes,” Loki says and his hands fly past Thor’s threatening hold to grab his neck.

Loki drags Thor’s head down, forcing a kiss in a brutal meeting of lips and teeth, a merciless invasion of his mouth, to delve in warmth and slickness. Thor stays wooden, unable to act, only endure the assault. Lips slack and open, he lets his brother shift over him, carefully adjust the angles between their mouths. Loki’s hands leave his neck to stroke the smooth planes of his armor as if he was caressing warm skin and sinews rather than metal and leather. When his brother’s hands finally reach his waist and brings their hips abruptly together, Thor breaks it off with a groan.

“Loki,” he hisses, trying to pin down his brother’s arms. “ _Brother.”_

Loki slaps him.

“Do you remember this only?” Loki snarls as Thor stumbles back, cheek stinging, eyes burning. “Our golden childhood? Or have you chosen to forget the events that have lead us to this?”

“Loki,” Thor tries again, taking a step back. Loki stays splayed against the wall, and Thor wishes he could ignore the seductive line of his brother’s neck, the way his black slick hair spans against the white stones. “Won’t you talk to me?”

His brother laughs and runs a graceful hand through his hair, revealing the white of his forehead.

“Didn’t I tell you everything already, brother mine?” Loki spits. “Or have you forgotten again?”

No, Thor has not forgotten. He knows the curve of his brother’s lips by heart. The line of his jaw, the arch of his neck and the shape of his nose hold no secret. He looks exhausted, pale and drawn. Loki’s skin is paper-thin and Thor fancies he can almost see the white outlines of bones beneath it.

“Loki,” Thor whispers because he used to know his brother best and he only ever saw such gauntness in his features when Loki exhausted all his strength for his seiðr. “What have you done?”

“They called you unworthy,” Loki snarls. “They called you weak. They laughed at you and wanted to control you, the prince of Asgard. How could I allow it?”

Loki slowly pushes himself from the wall, rolling his shoulders. He comes up to Thor and reaches for the hilt of his sword. Thurmuth slides silently from its well-oiled sheath and Loki takes a moment to consider the sword’s fine blade, eyes running up its length until they find the small inscription that Thor used to repeat like a prayer in his mind.

“You used to wield the thunder that I put in your hand,” Loki continues, and his hand glows red and green as it once did when they were young and lost in the forest before it closes around the blade. “And they made you play with a wooden sword.”

Thurmuth clatters to the floor and when Loki crushes it under his foot, the sound of her shattering blade reminds Thor of his own footsteps on the shards of ice.

 _She was soulless,_ Thor thinks as Mjölnir laughs giddily in his hand.

“How could I allow it?” Loki repeats as he looks down at the Godhammer, tilting his head as if he could hear her laughter. “They all deserve to burn.”

Loki looked beautiful in the wastelands of Jotunheim but deadly, and the furnace of Heimdall’s farm burned so bright in front of the dark forest. Thor takes a step back.

“Mother told me—” he has to swallow, trying to gather his scattered wits. “Járnsaxa—”

“Ah, your lady-love?” Loki shrugs. “She would have ruled in your stead while you played at being a king.”

Loki steps up to Thor.

“Was that ever your dream, huntsman?” Loki mocks. “To be guarded like a sheep in a beautiful enclosure, left to graze while your shepherds enjoy what is rightfully yours?”

“I would have loved her!” Thor snaps, shaken by the familiar nickname. Without the forest’s crisp scent and the trees to surround them, it feels as bitter as an insult.

“Yes,” Loki agrees, but his eyes flash with anger. “But tell me brother, for how long?”

There is an oath of eternal devotion on Thor’s tongue, but the brittle edge of his brother’s eyes hold a silent challenge to speak those words and Thor must avert his gaze.

There was always unrest in the back of Thor’s mind.

He knows that soon he would have sought the supple leather of his jerkin against his body rather than the soft skin of his wife. Soon, the weight of his first-born son’s hand in his own would have been too light and he would have sought something else to fill the emptiness of his palm in the dark recesses of the woods. Yes, he could have loved her. Instead, he let her go and was content when she never looked back.

“I made you a favor, brother,” Loki continues quietly. “Her blood tasted sweet, almost as sweet as Sif’s cries when I sheared her hair.”

 _It was you every time,_ Thor thinks, remaining silent despite the open provocation on his brother’s face. _Even if I was ignorant, you stayed in my shadow. You never left my side._

“Will you not roar in outrage?” Loki laughs. “I hurt the one you loved most when she grew too greedy and thought she could reunite you with your precious weapon.”

He thought himself in love, yes. It is nothing compared to the churning of his heart as he watches the cruel set of Loki’s eyes. 

“Perhaps you’re right not to defend her,” Loki forces another laugh when Thor says nothing. “After all, I did warn her not to wager all her gold so recklessly.”

“Why come out now?” Thor whispers, refusing to take the bait to anger.

“Don’t you see, brother?” Loki warns. “My love might be strong but in the end, my heart is weak.”

 _I will not give it up,_ Loki whispered against his lips.

Thor catches his brother’s jaw, letting his thumb follow of the curve of Loki’s lower lip.

“Why not before?” Thor asks again. “How could you be so cruel?”

“What about me?” Loki says against his thumb. “You think only of your suffering but can you even imagine mine? Day after day, I watched you stumble to me and you remember now, do you not?” Loki smiles but it feels as dangerous as the familiar edge of a dagger against his throat. “How many times I had to tell you my name.”

“Then why?” Thor presses. “It was your seiðr—”

“I thought of killing often,” Loki cuts sharply, “so that you would finally leave me in peace.”

“Lies!” Thor hisses. “Tell me the truth, why did you ensnare me? Why did you not break the spell before if it hurt you so?”

“Ah, so you still think me your ally,” Loki mocks. “You always trusted too easily, prince.”

“You are my brother!” Thor roars.

“I am not your brother,” Loki shouts back and his eyes are blown wide and open, finally open for Thor to see. “Your father gave me a choice: exile or a spell, strong enough that you would no longer recognize your own kin. I knew you would come after me if I left, I had no choice.”

“Why?” Thor presses when Loki says no more. “Tell me why!”

“Does it matter now?” Loki says as his hands creep up along the panes of his armor until they curl around Thor’s throat. “I gave you my word all these years ago, did I not? To make you Asgard’s most celebrated warrior. To open all doors for you. I’m only here to uphold my promise.”

The ringing sounds of the bells explode around them, clear and louder than death.

Loki smiles. “I will set you free.”

 

 

*

 

 

Since the envoy from Svartálfaheimr was an old friend of their father, he was received in his parents’ own quarters as the evening drew to a close and Loki dragged Thor from the gardens so they could listen to the dwarf’s storytelling.

“Foreigners tell the best stories,” Loki said when Thor protested. “Trust me, you will enjoy it.”

The old dwarf obliged Loki’s nagging readily enough and told endless tales of his country, where gold and lies were the only viable currency, always patient despite Loki’s incessant interruptions.

“There can only be one truth!” Loki protested vividly, surprising his father and the envoy into laughter.

“Yes, prince,” the dwarf agreed. “But which one? Yours or your enemy’s? The convenient truth or the one that will hurt the ones you love?”

Loki only titled his head, considering the envoy’s words while Thor would have brushed off more quickly than a fly bothering him.

The envoy inclined his head, satisfied by Loki’s uncertainty. “You will be welcome to Svartálfaheimr whenever you wish to search for your own truth.”

He talked long into the night, until his voice grew hoarse and Loki dozed off, body curled against Thor.

“Those are good sons you have, Allfather,” the dwarf said before Thor fell asleep.

“Yes,” his father smiled, making heady wine swirl lazily inside his cup. “They will grow strong together and make my realm prosperous.”

“This is all I wish for you and your queen, my friend,” the envoy said, gazing steadily at the dozing boys. “And yet, are you not worried?”

“Worried?” his father repeated, surprised.

“Your sons have grown entwined like the roots of a tree, bound together by love and brotherhood that you Aesir so highly value,” the dwarf said calmly. “All tales of grandeur begin with such a bond, but you would do well to remember that so do all tales of woe.”

 

 

*

 

 

“Had I not prophesized this day, Borson?” Laufey taunts from the Allfather’s throne.

The imposing seat of his father is dwarfed by the Princes of Jotunheim, who stand behind it like stone wardens of a listless prisoner. Thor long dreamed of the day he would claim the throne for himself but now drowned under Laufey’s giant bulk, the seat has lost all dignity, watching desolately as its master Odin stumbles down the steps of the dais, whirling to face Thor.

His father looks like an old man, frail and stooped, as if countless years have finally caught up with the king in a single breath. His skin, riddled with spots and deep lines, sags upon his cheeks, making his once proud jawline puffy and undignified. The velvet eyepatch has been wrenched away, revealing the dropping skin of his eyebrow on the angry contour of his empty eye socket. For the first time, Odin looks scared under layers of leather and plated gold.

“Thor—“ his father whispers, but his eye watches Loki, who stands silent and proud at Thor’s right.

The sounds of battle, swords meeting swords, angry, pained shouts and the endless scurrying of soldiers are barely muffled as the massive doors close behind Thor but he barely hears them. His city is burning, their enemies of old have taken the heart of Asgard, divested his father of his power and defeated him, but Thor can only think of the shape of Loki’s cold fingers where they rest against his neck.

“Yes, long have I foresighted this day,” Laufey mocks as he rises shifting Gungnir in his massive hands like a children’s toy. “For here comes my blood and in his hands lies the heart of your only heir.”

“Meet my father,” Loki says in Thor’s ear, “Laufey, Liege-Lord of Jotunheim, and my brothers.” He pauses and when Loki finally releases him, Thor can breathe again. “But them, you already know.”

 _Yes_ , Thor thinks as he gazes upon the mangled flesh of Helblindi’s arm, _I remember_.

“I have assembled all the players,” Loki whispers, not bothering to hide the challenge in his tone. “Watch me, brother.”

Loki takes a step back as the Allfather stumbles towards them. Thor hesitates only for one instant before he rushes to him.

 “Father,” he says, catching the king’s arm to steady him. “Are you well?”

His father closes his eye briefly, but the movement is grotesque when his right eye socket remains a dark, gaping wound.

“I knew he would betray us,” his father whispers. “You should have taken his head when you could. He led them here in the heart of our realm. All is lost now.”

 _Yes,_ Loki’s smile seems to say as Thor looks up. _He speaks true._

“You made us wait for too long, little brother,” Helblindi shouts, clambering down the steps.

 _Little brother,_ Thor bristles, watching Helblindi clasps Loki’s shoulder as Thor has done a thousand times before him. But there are no doubts in Thor’s mind regarding the truth of those words as the three brothers stand next to each other. The lithe limbs, their height and the distinct tilt of their heads scream of common ancestry.  

 _The boy was a runt, a disgrace,_ Thor remembers but even if Loki is slighter than his brothers in all respect, even if his skin is merely pale instead of bluish and frozen, he looks like he belongs with them, more than he ever did standing to Thor’s right.

“We thought it would never happen,” Býleistr adds behind his brother.

Loki sneers, brushing off Helblindi’s arm. “It was no little feat to bring down the Allfather’s defenses.”

“And yet, we thought you changed your mind,” Helblindi says, eyes narrowing in thought.

“What say you, Borson?” Laufey jeers, gesturing proudly towards his three sons. “How do you find my heirs?”

“I curse you,” Odin spits. “Curse you and your wretched issue.”

 _What are you saying, father?_ Thor thinks, flinching in his brother’s stead when Loki watches their father unblinkingly. _He was— He is your son._

Laufey laughs. “It is far too late for that, Allfather. My son brings me your realm. At last, the Aesirs will know the shame of defeat.”

 _Have you truly betrayed us, brother?_ He thinks as Loki slowly makes his way towards the King of Jotunheim, turning his back on Thor. _I cannot believe it._

“You have done well, my son,” Laufey says, arms outstretched in welcome. “I knew you would not disappoint.”

“Brother, no—” Thor tries, horrified, but Loki is already sinking into Laufey’s embrace without hesitation.

 _No, your place is here, beside me,_ Thor thinks desperately.

Laufey’s eyes barely widen before Loki steps back, hands covered in black blood. There are two thin blades in his hands, the same he always used to draw out of thin air. The king stumbles back, gasping. 

“You betray me,” the King of Jotunheim whispers, hands going to the gash in his belly, and before he can bend his head to assess the damage, Loki surges forward and in a neat, clean swipe, slits his father’s throat. As the blood gushes out, Loki takes a step aside and watches placidly the lifeless body of Laufey crumble to the floor. Thor waits for a cry of outrage and heartbreak, but instead of charging for Loki’s blood, Helblindi merely kneels to his father, watching as Laufey’s blood spreads and sifts between the stones of the floor, while Býleistr shrugs, looking away from their agonizing father.

“I am Loki, snowborn and accursed,” Loki says calmly, wiping his blades free of blood on the leather of his vambraces before he turns to Odin. “I have no father.”

 _He means to kill him,_ Thor knows in an instant, calling Mjölnir to his hand, and he steps in front of his father.

“Brother,” Thor says, raising Mjölnir in warning. “This is—“

“Madness?” Loki asks calmly. “No, brother, I only mean to set you free.”

“Thor, he’s not your brother,” Odin says. “He wormed his way into our home but he’s Jotun, our enemies of forever.

Loki barks out a laugh. “The old man is right! I am Jotun, I was never your brother.”

“You were!” Thor shouts, and he turns, towering over his father, mouth caught in a snarl. “He was my brother.”

Odin shakes his head. “You are young still, you do not understand. I did what was right for you and for this realm. I—“

“You lied to me!” Loki shouts, surging forward. “I was your son and you lied to me!”

“You are not my son,” Odin says, closing his eye briefly. “But you should have gone away when there was still time, I would have spared your life.”

“If you stay, then your brother will die,” Loki screams, features distorted by anger. “This is what you told me. Leave now, make him forget and his life will be spared!”

“You have poisoned him with lies and spells,” the Allfather accuses.

“I learned from you, father,” Loki jeers. “After all, you told me to save your heir, appealed to your younger son to protect the Golden Prince, tricked me into thinking you loved me while you used me, the vermin, the false son, the darkness you always to smother, and forced me to live like a cripple in the snow.”

“What are you saying?” Thor whispers.

“When you left for Vanaheim, your father came to me with a strange story,” Loki says. “He said that the King of Jotunheim cursed you and that your death would come by the hand of his brother, my hand.” Loki laughs, contemplating the pale skin of his hand in wonder. “And I believed him! After all, he was my dear father. He exiled me, but I knew you would come after me, that you would never accept his lies, so I devised another solution. I would make you forget and leave Asgard. If you never had a brother, how could you perish by his hand?”

“You took the hammer from him,” Odin’s lip curls in anger. “An Aesir is nothing if he no longer wields his weapon!”

“I—” Loki rears back, eyes suddenly wide, before he shakes his head. “You tricked me, father, you the righteous ruler of Asgard. There was never any curse, only the fear of a senile man who could never accept that he raised a Jotun as his son!”

“Enough!” Thor growls. Odin’s eye grows wide as Thor’s grip on Mjölnir tightens in fury. “You may have forsaken but you will send my body to rest in the sea before I do the same!”

“Let me take his life then,” Loki mocks, but the taunt is brittle. “As a boon for our lost childhood.”

“He’s my King and Father,” Thor snarls, facing back Loki, and he raises Mjölnir again in front of him.  “I am duty-bound to protect him and the realm. Do not ask this of me.”

“I must,” Loki smiles and Thor barely has a chance to brace himself before Loki is on him.

So many times, they have fought together: as children, wrestling in the dust. As brothers at arms, training together, pushing their bodies towards excellence. As allies, fighting side by side against common enemies. As strangers, too, far too many times as strangers, and only once in the sweetest battles of all, waged between the sheets.

Thor will not let it end today.

He tries to catch Loki’s throat but his brother twists under his arm with a snarl. Instead of retreating and wait for a weakness in his defense as Thor expects, Loki follows his momentum and barrels shoulder-first into Thor, trying to unbalance him, but even if Thor is surprised, it is hardly effective.

_Desperate, brother?_

Thor barely jostles despite the shock and he pushes back Loki easily, swinging Mjölnir swiftly. He wants to force his brother to duck, push him back and put distance between him and Odin, but Loki does not evade the hammer and mouth set in a thin resolute line, he catches Mjölnir with his forearm.

The bone snaps neatly beneath his hammer’s weight, forcing Loki to his knees as he cries out in pain. Thor waits for the clever retort and the swirl of magic, for Loki to vanish in a flicker and reappear behind him, blade poised to strike, but the pain is honest and brutal on Loki’s face as he clutches his arm to his chest.

He falls on his knees beside his brother in a breath, wincing as he sees his brother’s bone, barely held together by the hard leather of his vambrace but Loki slaps his hands away with a sigh before Thor reaches for it.

“I—“ Loki tries but his breath fails him.

“Brother,” Thor whispers as he finally sees the angry lines in his brother’s face, the deathly sheen of his skin, his bloodless lips.

 _No, your seiðr is too costly,_ Thor thinks. _Why would you bring yourself to the edge of your strength?_

“I hoped—” Loki forces out, as if he were spitting the most hateful words. “I hoped I would be strong enough, but it doesn’t matter now.”

He raises his good hand to Thor’s cheek and Loki’s eyes follow avidly the path of his nails that rake along the bristle hair of his beard.

“You are whole again,” Loki adds, eyes falling to Mjölnir. “I am glad for you, brother.”

 _What are you saying?_ Thor wants to ask but Loki stands, taking a shaky towards Helblindi, leaving Thor behind.

“I was right to doubt you, Liesmith,” Helblindi says where he kneels next to his father’s prone form. “If the Allfather must live, then our bargain no longer holds. You promised two kingly corpses in exchange of the miserable life of your Thundergod, but I see there will only be one.”

 _Bargain?_ Thor wonders. _Brother, what have you done?_

“Then let us restrike our deal,” Loki says, drawing himself to his full height. “I have slain the King of Jotunheim, hence your laws proclaim me the rightful heir. I shall not exercise this right, if you swear to kill the Allfather.”

Býleistr sneers. “Our law cannot be broken so easily.”

“You misunderstand me,” Loki says. “I will not fight you when you come for my head, and my death will make you kin, provided that you swear.”

Helblindi lets out a sharp laugh. “They have made you soft, little brother, you could never rule over the Land of Ice,” he mocks, drawing his sword. “But if it is your wish to die here, then I do so swear.”

Thor used to walk through the citadel, stomping his feet and laughing as loud as his lungs would allow him. He used to swear and screech and cheer through the streets. The people called him wild and showy, but Thor only acted like this because Loki was walking a breath beside him and this was the most efficient way he could devise to divert the attention of his fellow Asgardians from his little brother.

He only ever meant to protect.

Thor’s body moves before he even realizes it, stepping in front of his brother in a smooth motion.

 _Blood! Blood!_ Mjölnir cries. _Now the blood of those who threaten your kin!_

“Move away, Odinson,” Helblindi warns. “This does not concern you.”

“Do you think I will let you harm him?” Thor hisses.

“Enough now, Thor,” Loki mutters, resting a familiar hand on Thor’s shoulder. “You are whole again and you will finally be free when the Allfather is dead. Do not fight this. All will be well.”

 _All will be well,_ Thor seethes, _those wretched words._

He would take them and slap Loki with their hateful sound but his brother looks determined, almost content, as he contemplates Mjölnir, as if his purpose was finally reached.

Thor punched his brother when Loki first revealed his seiðr, making him stumble in the dirt like an outcast. He shoved him away, because Aesirs keep their magic hidden and safe. He left his brother behind to travel across the valleys of Vanaheim and satisfy his bloodlust until he earned his title as a God. He worshipped Mjölnir, because for a man in Asgard cannot be called a warrior if he does not possess a weapon. That is the way.

 “You think this was all for Mjölnir?” Thor asks as he finally understands. “You think I scoured the woods day after day like a mindless boar for her?” He chuckles, and it sounds like the broken and jaded sound of Loki’s laughter. “I was searching for you, Loki. It was only ever for you.”

There’s an instant of indecision before Loki laughs ruefully, brushing past him without a word.

 _He does not believe me,_ Thor despairs but he remembers countless times when his brother dismissed his words until Thor’s actions could prove them right.

“Very well,” Thor says and he lets Mjölnir clatter to the ground. She whines in betrayal but he ignores her, ignores her desperate cries and moans, ignores the itch in his hand. Instead, he draws the small dagger, still stained with his little friend’s blood and raises it in defiance. “Leave this realm, Prince of the North, or meet my steel.”

“What are you doing, you idiot?” Loki whispers.

Helblindi guffaws and in his hands, he shifts his massive broadsword. “It seems the little Aesir dog has gone rabid.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Loki says with unexpected urgency. “The hammer is yours to wield again. Take up arms or step aside.”

“No,” Thor snaps as he shifts his body in the basic stance of defense. His balance is off without the heavy weight of Mjölnir in his palm or even the grounding iron of Thurmuth. But he has fought half of his life without his beloved Mjölnir. He knows what it is to protect—what it is—

 _All purposes are not clear-cut like diamonds,_ the voice of his mother echoes in his ears. _All loyalties are not black or white, fire or ice. In your own time, you must learn to compromise. Do you see, my son? Do you understand?_

His gaze lingers on Helblindi’s confident smile, the open fear of his father, and the hunched back of his brother, they all want something different from him but finally it is his decision to make.

 _Yes, I understand now, Mother,_ Thor thinks, clearly for the first time in months, clearly for the first time in years, _I understand._

“No,” he says again, forcefully, and there’s thunder in his voice. “I will face him with my bare hands for you, brother, until you believe that each step I took in that wretched forest was for you. It was ever only for you.”

“You Aesir are strange creatures,” Helblindi laughs. “But if you all want to die today, I will oblige you.”

Helblindi is a formidable opponent, mixing seiðr with the straightforward swipes of his iron sword, and Thor manages only a few passes before the Jotun’s sword slices the supple leather that protects his thigh. The blood blooms bright and angry but Thor has no time to curse, before Helblindi’s beefy fists catches him in the temple.

This is familiar pain, but impossible to accommodate as Thor clatters to the floor. He lies there listless and despite the dizziness behind his eyelids, he wonders when the final blow will come.

“Get up!”

The voice echoes like a whip and when he manages to struggle to his knees again, Loki is kneeling next to him, hand pressing against the gushing wound of his thigh and Helblindi is smiling at them, openly amused.

“Pick her up,” Loki begs, eyes wild. “He’ll kill you.”

“I would never want her,” Thor grits out through the pain, “if it was the only way for you to be mine.”

 _You understand, my sweet,_ Thor whispers to his fallen hammer. _I was ever worthy of you because of him._

The hammer only hums in sad acceptance. She loved Loki already when his brother first laid a hand on her flank, warming the cool metal. She understood even if Thor was too young and blind to see.

“If you were not by my side,” Thor says, catching Loki’s neck, “how could I bear it tomorrow?”

Loki’s eyes widen, recognizing his own words, and he bends his head, mouth frozen in an open smile. He catches Thor’s hand and presses a kiss to his palm, hot and wet and reverent.

“Pick her up,” he says against the skin of his palm.

Mjölnir snaps into his hand as soon as Thor extends his palm, and with a roar, he lets his hammer fly towards Helblindi, catching the prince in the collarbone. The bone caves under the violence of the impact, and Helblindi crashes against the floor, curling over his good side, shrieking in pain.

Mjölnir flies back to his hand as Loki helps him to his feet, but before he can step towards the fallen prince, Býleistr steps next to his brother, looking down placidly at his eldest brother.

“Brother,” Helblindi groans, crying out in pain when Býleistr plants a foot on his brother’s destroyed shoulder, forcing him to roll on his back. “Brother, help me!”

“Quiet, you fool,” Býleistr whispers as he plunges his blade through his brother’s throat, silencing Helblindi’s groans of pain into obscene wet gurgles. “Do you not know defeat when you see it?”

“Jotun dog,” Thor sneers, “you have no honor.”

“Peace, Odinson,” Býleistr says, stepping away from his slain brother. “I have no complaints. Too long have my father and my brother stood in my way to the throne, 

If you grant me Jotunheim and a truce between our realms, I will call back our force and return to the Land of Ice.”

“Then run, Princeling,” Thor roars. “And if I ever hear a whisper of unrest in your cursed realm, know that I will crush every Jotun soul until they’re but dust and agony!”

 _Why not lay ruin to their realm, my prince?_ Mjölnir wonders, watching the retreating back of Laufey’s remaining heir, already missing the angry clamoring of the bells, promised to be silenced by peace, but Loki stands next to him, tall and tangible and it is enough.

“Thor,” Odin rasps.

“Not a word more, Father,” Thor warns angrily as he turns towards his father. “The time for your counsel is long gone.”

“Won’t you kill him, brother?” Loki asks, straining past him until Thor catches him by the hair, keeping him grounded.

“They stole our childhood,” Thor tells him, hold turning gentle against his brother’s head. “This is the last time they will take anything from us. We made a pact long ago, haven’t we?”  

“This is a mistake,” his brother says, but his hand covers Thor’s fingers where they’re curled around the gilded handle of Mjölnir.

“It may be,” Thor nods, “but it is mine to make.”

 

 

*

 

 

“Baldr,” his mother told him. “The name I chose for your little brother was Baldr.”

The fire was comforting next to him and he gathered the familiar warmth of his brother closer to him. Loki was already asleep, curled against him, and the carpet was rough against Thor’s cheek, but still he tried to fight the rising hold of sleep.

“But when they put your brother in my arms for the first time,” his mother continued. “I knew I could not name him Baldr. He was not.”

She smiled softly. “He was Loki.”

She kneeled next to Thor and as she rested a gentle hand on Loki’s head, careful not to disturb his sleep, her gaze found Odin, snoring away in an old armchair by the fire. Thor was too young to recognize the wisps of wariness in his mother’s eyes, only seeing the infinite love she held for her husband.

“Like the little stoats, yes?” She whispered, brushing her thin fingers against his brother’s hair. “You understand now, Thor? You must protect him.”

She stroked Loki’s hair until the dark strands ran smooth and shiny and the fire burned down in the hearth.

“You must.”

 

 

*

 

 

Thor wakes up cold and disoriented. He struggles to gather his thoughts, fighting the uneasiness in his stomach and the soreness of his limbs, the burning sting of a deep wound in his thigh.

 _Brother,_ he thinks, eyes snapping open, panicking when he does not feel the weight of Loki’s body next to his until his eyes find the hunched figure of his brother.

Loki is sitting on the edge of the bed, head hidden in his good hand, the other curled carefully against his stomach, and under the stretched skin of his back, Thor can count each rib. His fingers itch to follow their outline and bashfully he indulges himself to calm the thundering beat of his heart.

Loki’s skin is cold beneath his fingertips and when his brother raises his head, alerted by Thor’s wandering fingers, his face is an intricate mess of shadows and ragged lines. Thor can barely see it, only the familiar curves of his brother’s face, the faint shadow of red in his cheeks, the even fainter glow of his skin.

 _He will recover,_ Thor thinks, gazing as the splint holding his brother’s arm together, satisfied when he finds it held throughout the night.

“Loki,” he says, because he can, savoring the name on his tongue. He catches his brother’s hand and drags it until it rests, heavy and unavoidable, on his chest in a parody of that first morning.

 _Only two days past,_ Thor realizes.

“I never meant to take her from you,” Loki says, bowing his head and Thor glances at Mjölnir, resting at Loki’s feet.

“It was foolish. The spell—“ Loki licks his lips, suddenly uncertain. “It took too much out of me, it took too much out of you.”

“That apple—“ Thor understands as Loki’s hand shifts to cover his heart, nails leaving thin red tracks on his skin.

“It was as if I felled a century-old oak,” Loki continues. “The roots were too deep and they destroyed everything when I wrenched them from the ground. I never realized how deep they would be and still it was not enough, you could never shake off the suspicion. Endlessly, you looked.”

“Yes,” Thor says. “I have hunted for years for you. I would have hunted many more.”

“Father blamed me,” Loki admits. “He thought it was always my design to take your power away from you, but how could it be? In one aspect he was right, I am no Aesir. I never truly understood the bond you have with Mjölnir. I never suspected you would forget her too.”

“How could I be worthy of her, when it was you who put her in my hand?” Thor sighs, closing his eyes until all he can feel is the grain of his brother’s skin under his hands, the weight of Loki’s hand on his chest.

 “I have killed my father, Thor,” Loki tells him softly, catching his chin in one hand, demanding his attention. “You can never truly be free until I kill yours.”

Thor nods, brushing his hair back from his face, satisfied when Loki’s eyes follow the shifting muscles of his arms. “Yes.”

Loki smiles. “And still you will try to stop me.”

“Yes,” Thor says and he drags Loki down on his chest until his brother’s face is tucked against his neck, adjusting the covers to lie snugly above them. “But not today, not until you’re warm and healthy again.”

Thor’s hand curls in the dark hair of his brother, and if he squeezes too tight, Loki does not complain.

“Yes,” Thor whispers, “not until the snow has melted.”

“Fool,” Loki hisses harshly against his neck but his lips are warm and moist as they kiss the skin of his throat. 

 _Yes_ , Thor thinks, _and perhaps the snow would never melt._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be strangers, share the feels if there are feels to be shared!  
> Thank you!


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